
► • * ^ \0 O^ ' V# • • A <X • * • aCSt 

(P^ •‘J^ 


Ao 




.• '^oV . 

o ^ ^^'o Vo® 







<V '«'.»•* .6^ '^b '♦ 

.‘'•, ^ d^ 

0° . 


. .r * 

* .# % *»Tr,"’>o 

^ <0 . ’•a^^*** ^ 

• />$ o^_ 

♦ * 


Ao 


’'•rV.'** A -"o'* 4* .0 

^Or 0 ® ** • ♦ 4 ^ • ^ O^ o ® * 

^<r /i^jw:. ^ X* *': 0 iaz^^ % <P • 


... % o'®* .♦•.%. «y .. •*' *"' 

^A*' *^< 51 . .* > 3 IK\ .❖ /AVa'o \ 


• <A ■• 

♦ • 


• ® 

• • • * A *o • k* «G 

..6^ 0®."*o 

b/ •• 

> '> 


v^ 







A* 



\^- 

***" <<^* , .. *\v**^’'’o^” .♦• . 

V . • I -f <• < 1 ?^ « 3 ky • ✓ 




•• •^H^' 

• ‘,'^^ 4 ' .^> 0 , 
♦ ♦ < 4 ^ Vik 

5 -^ %, 


V- ’>.- * 4 <t 5 ^ 

0 ^ 0 ® " • ♦ “* c^ ® 

0 •_rg5V ^jA ^.. O ^^^ATTp^ W- - V • 




0 « • 



r; *.' 

♦ r» ^ * 


V • ’ • »# JlO' • > 



• ■ « 


• '% 



igr\w ' "• iiSOTS *’ aV "'o'*^ Jl^vXH* ♦ ' 

• *♦ -c!^ ^ A <cr 

<’° A 

<A ® .. ■<!> .*» 4 ^vI1Sk<^^^* V». -..X a 


*^4 


.X« 


o.«. 





• •. 4 ?^ . •i:ir»- > 




U O S^ A ♦ ' 


•«.*’ <iv **. 

'^^ •»” 

^trfvVAV .. 
v-sr • 






K» VV <.'...• ^C> ■'**•* 4^ .,, 

.4? * ■^. A .v^^DV. 'K. -J^Sm 









■-^0 
4 O 












irf I 


s f 










A 




li 






U'- 

\ ' 







JANE AUSTEN^S WORKS. 


Sense and Sensibility ... a vols. 
Pride and Prejudice .... 2 vols. 

Mansfield Park 2 vols. 

Emma 2 vols. 

Northanger Abbey . . . . i vol. 

Persuasion 1 vol. 

Lady Susan — The Watsons 

With a Memoir . . . . i vol. 
Letters i vol. 






THE NOVELS OF JANE AUSTEN 


LADY SUSAN 
THE WATS O N S 


WITH A MEMOIR 

BY HER NEPHEW 

J. E. AUSTEN LEIGH 


BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 
1905 


TZs 

U 


Copyright^ 1892^ 

By Roberts Brothers. 


By'Ttanaf&t 
Geological StUT^ 

DEC 3 0 1982 


^ntbersttg IPresw: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S,A. 


PREFACE. 


II 


0 

1 


iJ 


I HAVE lately received permission to print the 
following tale from the author’s niece, Lady 
Knatchbull, of Provender, in Kent, to whom the 
I autograph copy was given. I am not able to as- 
j certain when it was composed. Her family have 
always believed it to be an early production, 
i Perhaps she wrote it as an experiment in conduct- 
f ing a story by means of letters. It was not, how- 
ever, her only attempt of that kind; for Sense 
and Sensibility” was first written in letters; but 
as she afterwards re-wrote one of these works and 
never published the other, it is probable that she 
was not quite satisfied with the result. The tale 
itself is scarcely one on which a literary reputation 
could have been founded: but though, like some 
plants, it may be too slight to stand alone, it may, 
perhaps, be supported by the strength of her more 
firmly rooted works. At any rate, it cannot di- 
minish Jane Austen’s reputation as a writer; for 
even if it should be judged unworthy of the pub- 
licity now given to it, the censure must fall on 
■ him who has put it forth, not on her who kept it 
locked up in her desk. 




LADY SUSAN. 



i k# 






LADY SUSAN. 


I. 

Lady Susan Vernon to Mr. Vernon. 

Langford, Dec. 

DEAR BROTHER, — I can no longer 
refuse myself the pleasure of profiting 
by your kind invitation when we last 
parted of spending some weeks with 
you at Churchhill, and therefore, if quite conven- 
ient to you and Mrs. Vernon to receive me at 
present, I shall hope within a few days to he in- 
troduced to a sister whom I have so long desired 
to be acquainted with. My kind friends here are 
most affectionately urgent with me to prolong my 
stay, but their hospitable and cheerful dispositions 
lead them too much into society for my present sit- 
uation and state of mind; and I impatiently look 
forward to the hour when I shall he admitted into 
your delightful retirement. 

I long to he made known to your dear little chil- 
dren, in whose hearts I shall be very eager to se- 
cure an interest. I shall soon have need for all 
my fortitude, as I am on the point of separation 



8 


LADY SUSAN. 


from my own daughter. The long illness of her 
dear father prevented my paying her that atten- 
tion which duty and affection equally dictated, 
and I have too much reason to fear that the gov- 
erness to whose care I consigned her was unequal 
to the charge. I have therefore resolved on plac- 
ing her at one of the best private schools in town, 
where I shall have an opportunity of leaving her 
myself in my way to you. I am determined, you 
see, not to he denied admittance at Churchhill. It 
would indeed give me most painful sensations to 
know that it were not in your power to receive me. 

Your most obliged and affectionate sister, 

S. Vernon. 


II. 

Lady Susan Vernon to Mrs. Johnson. 

Langford. 

You were mistaken, my dear Alicia, in supposing 
me fixed at this place for the rest of the winter : it 
grieves me to say how greatly you were mistaken, 
for I have seldom spent three months more agree- 
ably than those which have just flown away. At 
present, nothing goes smoothly; the females of 
the family are united against me. You foretold 
how it would be when I first came to Langford, 
and Mainwaring is so uncommonly pleasing that I 
was not without apprehensions for myself. I re- 
member saying to myself, as I drove to the house, 
‘‘I like this man, pray Heaven no harm come of 
it! But I was determined to be discreet, to bear 
in mind my being only four months a widow, and 


LADY SUSAN. 


9 


to be as quiet as possible : and I have been so, my 
dear creature; I have admitted no one^s attentions 
but Mainwaring’s. T have avoided all general flir- 
tation whatever; I have distinguished no creature 
besides, of all the numbers resorting hither, ex- 
cept Sir James Martin, on whom I bestowed a 
little notice, in order to detach him from Miss 
Mainwaring; but if the world could know my 
motive there they would honor me. I have been 
called an unkind mother, but it was the sacred im- 
pulse of maternal affection, it was the advantage 
of my daughter that led me on ; and if that daugh- 
ter were not the greatest simpleton on earth, I 
might have been rewarded for my exertions as I 
ought. 

Sir James did make proposals to me for Fred- 
erica; but Frederica, who was born to be the tor- 
ment of my life, chose to set herself so violently 
against the match that I thought it better to lay 
aside the scheme for the present. I have more 
than once repented that I did not marry him my- 
self; and were he but one degree less contempti- 
bly weak, I certainly should: but I must own 
myself rather romantic in that respect, and that 
riches only will not satisfy me. The event of all 
this is very provoking: Sir James is gone, Maria 
highly incensed, and Mrs. Mainwaring insupport- 
ably jealous; so jealous, in short, and so enraged 
against me, that, in the fury of her temper, I 
should not be surprised at her appealing to her 
guardian, if she had the liberty of addressing him : 
but there your husband stands my friend; and 
the kindest, most amiable action of his life was his 


10 


LADY SUSAN. 


throwing her off forever on her marriage. Keep 
up his resentment, therefore, I charge you. We 
are now in a sad state; no house was ever more al- 
tered : the whole party are at war, and Mainwaring 
scarcely dares speak to me. It is time for me to 
be gone; I have therefore determined on leaving 
them, and shall spend, I hope, a comfortable day 
with you in town within this week. If I am as 
little in favor with Mr. Johnson as ever, you must 
come to me at 10 Wigmore Street; but I hope this 
may not be the case, for as Mr. Johnson, with all 
his faults, is a man to whom that great word ‘ ‘ re- 
spectable is always given, and I am known to be 
so intimate with his wife, his slighting me has an 
awkward look. 

I take London in my way to that insupporta- 
ble spot, a country village; for I am really going 
to Churchhill. Forgive me, my dear friend, it is 
my last resource. Were there another place in 
England open to me, I would prefer it. Charles 
Vernon is my aversion, and I am afraid of his 
wife. At Churchhill, however, I must remain till 
I have something better in view. My young lady 
accompanies me to town, where I shall deposit 
her under the care of Miss Summers, in Wigmore 
Street, till she becomes a little more reasonable. 
She will make good connections there, as the girls 
are all of the best families. The price is im- 
mense, and much beyond what I can ever attempt 
to pay. 

Adieu, I will send you a line as soon as I arrive 
in town. 

Yours ever, S. Vernon. 


LADY SUSAN. 


11 


III. 

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy. 

Churchhill. 

My dear Mother, — I am very sorry to tell 
you that it will not be in our power to keep our 
promise of spending our Christmas with youj and 
we are prevented that happiness by a circumstance 
which is not likely to make us any amends. Lady 
Susan, in a letter to her brother-in-law, has de- 
clared her intention of visiting us almost imme- 
diately; and as such a visit is in all probability 
merely an affair of convenience, it is impossible to 
conjecture its length. I was by no means prepared 
for such an event, nor can I now account for her 
ladyship’s conduct; Langford appeared so exactly 
the place for her in every respect, as well from tlie 
elegant and expensive style of living there, as 
from her particular attachment to Mr. Mainwaring, 
that I was very far from expecting so speedy a dis- 
tinction, though I always imagined from her in- 
creasing friendship for us since her husband’s 
death that we should, at some future period, be 
obliged to receive her. Mr. Vernon, I think, was 
a great deal too kind to her when he was in Staf- 
fordshire; her behavior to him, independent of her 
general character, has been so inexcusably artful 
and ungenerous since our marriage was first in 
agitation that no one less amiable and mild than 
himself could have overlooked it all; and though, 
as his brother’s widow, and in narrow circum- 
stances, it was proper to render her pecuniary 
assistance, I cannot help thinking his pressing in- 


12 


LADY SUSAN. 


vitation to her to visit us at Churchhill perfectly 
unnecessary. Disposed, however, as he always is 
to think the best of every one, her display of grief, 
and professions of regret, and general resolutions 
of prudence were sufficient to soften his heart, and 
make him really confide in her sincerity; but as 
for myself, I am still unconvinced, and plausibly 
as her ladyship has now written, I cannot make up 
my mind till I better understand her real meaning 
in coming to us. You may guess, therefore, my 
dear madam, with what feelings I look forward to 
her arrival. She will have occasion for all those 
attractive powers for which she is celebrated to 
gain any share of my regard; and I shall certainly 
endeavor to guard myself against their influence, 
if not accompanied by something more substantial. 
She expresses a. most eager desire of being ac- 
quainted with me, and makes very gracious men- 
tion of my children, but I am not quite weak 
enough to suppose a woman who has behaved with 
inattention, if not with unkindness to her own 
child, should be attached to any of mine. Miss 
Vernon is to be placed at a school in London 
before her mother comes to us, which I am glad of, 
for her sake and my own. It must he to her ad- 
vantage to be separated from her mother, and a 
girl of sixteen who has received so wretched an 
education could not be a very desirable companion 
here. Reginald has long wished, I know, to see 
the captivating Lady Susan, and we shall depend 
on his joining our party soon. I am glad to hear 
that my father continues so well; and am, with 
best love, etc.. 


Catherine Vernon. 


LADY SUSAN. 


13 


IV. 


Mr. De Courcy to Mrs. Vernon. 

Parklands. 

My dear Sister, — I congratulate you and Mr. 
Vernon on being about to receive into your family 
the most accomplished coquette in England. As a 
very distinguished flirt I have always been taught 
to consider her, but it has lately fallen in my way 
to hear some particulars of her conduct at Langford, 
which prove that she does not confine herself to 
that sort of honest flirtation which satisfies most 
people, but aspires to the more delicious gratifica- 
tion of making a whole family miserable. By her 
behavior to Mr. Mainwaring she gave jealousy and 
wretchedness to his wife, and by her attentions to 
a young man previously attached to Mr. Main- 
waring’s sister deprived an amiable girl of her 
lover. 

I learnt all this from Mr. Smith, now in this 
neighborhood (I have dined with him, at Hurst 
and Wilford), who is just come from Langford, 
where he was a fortnight with her ladyship, and 
who is therefore well qualified to make the 
communication. 

What a woman she must be ! I long to see her, 
and shall certainly accept your kind invitation, 
that I may form some idea of those bewitching 
powers which can do so much — engaging at the 
same time, and in the same house, the affections 
of two men, who were neither of them at libertj^ 


14 


LADY SUSAN. 


to bestow them — and all this without the charm 
of youth! I am glad to find Miss Vernon does 
not accompany her mother to Churchhill, as she 
has not even manners to recommend herj and ac- 
cording to Mr. Smith’s account, is equally dull 
and proud. Where pride and stupidity unite 
there can be no dissimulation worthy notice, and 
Miss Vernon shall be consigned to unrelenting 
contempt; but by all that I can gather Lady Susan 
possesses a degree of captivating deceit which it 
must be pleasing to witness and detect. I shall 
be with you very soon, and am ever 
Your affectionate brother, 

K. DE COURCY. 


V. 


Lady Susan Vernon to Mrs. Johnson. 

Churchhill. 

I RECEIVED your note, my dear Alicia, just 
before I left town, and rejoice to be assured that 
Mr. Johnson suspected nothing of your engagement 
the evening before. It is undoubtedly better to 
deceive him entirely, and since he will be stub- 
born he must be tricked. I arrived here in safety, 
and have no reason to complain of my reception 
from Mr. Vernon; but I confess myself not equally 
satisfied wdth the behavior of his lady. She is 
perfectly well-bred, indeed, and has the air of a 
woman of fashion, but her manners are not such 
as can persuade me of her being prepossessed in 
my favor. I wanted her to be delighted at seeing 


LADY SUSAN. 


15 


me, I was as amiable as possible on the occasion, 
but all in vain. She does not like me. To be 
sure, when we consider that I did take some pains 
to prevent my brother-in-law’s marrying her, this 
want of cordiality is not very surprising, and yet 
it shows an illiberal and vindictive spirit to resent 
a project which influenced me six years ago, and 
which never succeeded at last. 

I am sometimes disposed to repent that I did 
not let Charles buy Vernon Castle, when we were 
obliged to sell it; but it was a trying circum- 
stance, especially as the sale took place exactly at 
the time of his marriage; and everybody ought to 
respect the delicacy of those feelings which could 
not endure that my husband’s dignity should be 
lessened by his younger brother’s having posses- 
sion of the family estate. Could matters have 
been so arranged as to prevent the necessity of 
our leaving the castle, could we have lived with 
Charles and kept him single, I should have been 
very far from persuading my husband to dispose of 
it elsewhere; but Charles was on the point of mar- 
rying Miss De Courcy, and the event has justified 
me. Here are children in abundance, and what 
benefit could have accrued to me from his pur- 
chasing Vernon? My having prevented it may 
perhaps have given his wife an unfavorable im- 
pression; but where there is a disposition to dis- 
like, a motive will never be wanting; and as to 
money matters it has not withheld him from being 
very useful to me. I really have a regard for him, 
he is so easily imposed upon'. The house is a good 
one, the furniture fashionable, and everything an- 


16 


LADY SUSAN. 


nounces plenty and elegance. Charles is very rich, 
I am sure; when a man has once got his name in 
a banking-house, he rolls in money; but they do 
not know what to do with it, keep very little 
company, and never go to London but on business. 
We shall be as stupid as possible. I mean to win 
my sister-in-law’s heart through the children; I 
know all their names already, and am going to at- 
tach myself with the greatest sensibility to one in 
particular, a young Urederic, whom I take on my 
lap and sigh over for his dear uncle’s sake. 

Poor Mainwaring! I need not tell you how much 
I miss him, how perpetually he is in my thoughts. 
I found a dismal letter from him on my arrival 
here, full of complaints of his wife and sister, and 
lamentations on the cruelty of his fate. I passed 
off the letter as his wife’s, to the Vernons, and 
when I write to him it must be under cover 
to you. 

Ever yours, S. Vkrnon. 


VI. 

Mrs. Vernon to Mr. De Courcy. 

Churchhill. 

Well, my dear Reginald, I have seen this dan- 
gerous creature, and must give you some descrip- 
tion of her, though I hope you will soon be able 
to form your own judgment. She is really exces- 
sively pretty; however you may choose to question 
the allurements of a lady no longer young, I must, 
for my own part, declare that I have seldom seen 


LADY SUSAN. 


17 


80 lovely a woman as Lady Susan. She is deli- 
cately fair, with fine gray eyes and dark eyelashes ; 
and from her appearance one would not suppose 
her more than five and twenty, though she must 
in fact be ten years older. I was certainly not 
disposed to admire her, though always hearing she 
was beautiful ; but I cannot help feeling that she 
possesses an uncommon union of symmetry, bril- 
liancy, and grace. Her address to me was so gen- 
tle, frank, and even affectionate, that, if I had not 
known how much she has always disliked me for 
marrying Mr. Vernon, and that we had never met 
before, I should have imagined her an attached 
friend. One is apt, I believe, to connect assur- 
ance of manner with coquetry, and to expect that 
an impudent address will naturally attend an im- 
pudent mind; at least I was myself prepared for 
an improper degree of confidence in Lady Susan; 
but her countenance is absolutely sweet, and her 
voice and manner winningly mild. I am sorry it 
is so, for what is this but deceit? Unfortunately, 
one knows her too well. She is clever and agree- 
able, has all that knowledge of the world which 
makes conversation easy, and talks very well with 
a happy command of language, which is too often 
used, I believe, to make black appear white. She 
has already almost persuaded me of her being 
warmly attached to her daughter, though I have 
been so long convinced to the contrary. She 
speaks of her with so much tenderness and anxi- 
ety, lamenting so bitterly the neglect of her edu- 
cation, which she represents however as wholly 
unavoidable, that I am forced to recollect how 


18 


LADY SUSAN. 


many successive springs her ladyship spent in 
town, while her daughter was left in Staffordshire 
to the care of servants, or a governess very little 
better, to prevent my believing what she says. 

If her manners have so great an influence on my 
resentful heart, you may judge how much more 
strongly they operate on Mr. Vernon’s generous 
temper. I wish I could be as well satisfied as he 
is, that it was really her choice to leave Langford 
for Churchhill; and if she had not stayed there for 
months before she discovered that her friend’s 
manner of living did not suit her situation or feel- 
ings, I might have believed that concern for the 
loss of such a husband as Mr. Vernon, to whom 
her own behavior was far from unexceptionable, 
might for a time make her wish for retirement. 
But I cannot forget the length of her visit to the 
Mainwarings; and when I reflect on the different 
mode of life which she led with them from that to 
which she must now submit, I can only suppose 
that the wish of establishing her reputation by 
following though late the path of propriety, occa- 
sioned her removal from a family where she must 
in reality have been particularly happy. Your 
friend Mr. Smith’s story, however, cannot be 
quite correct, as she corresponds regularly with 
Mrs. Mainwaring. At any rate it must be exag- 
gerated. It is scarcely possible that two men 
should be so grossly deceived by her at once. 

Yours, etc., 

Catherike Vernon, 


LADY SUSAN. 


19 


VII. 


Lady Susan Vernon to Mrs. Johnson, 

Churchhill. 

My dear Alicia, — You are very good in tak- 
ing notice of Frederica, and I am grateful for it as 
a mark of your friendship; but as I cannot have 
any doubt of the warmth of your affection, I am 
far from exacting so heavy a sacrifice. She is a 
stupid girl, and has nothing to recommend her. 
I would not, therefore, on my account have you 
encumber one moment of your precious time by 
sending for her to Edward Street, especially as 
every visit is so much deducted from the grand af- 
fair of education, which I really wish to have at- 
tended to while she remains at Miss Summers’. I 
want her to play and sing with some portion of 
taste and a good deal of assurance, as she has my 
hand and arm and a tolerable voice. I was so 
much indulged in my infant years that I was 
never obliged to attend to anything, and conse- 
quently am without the accomplishments which 
are now necessary to finish a pretty woman. Not 
that I am an advocate for the prevailing fashion of 
acquiring a perfect knowledge of all languages, 
arts, and sciences. It is throwing time away 
to be mistress of French, Italian, and German: 
music, singing, and drawing, etc., will gain a 
woman some applause, but will not add one lover 
to her list — grace and manner, after all, are of 
the greatest importance. I do not mean, there* 


20 


LADY SUSAN. 


fore, that Frederica's acquirements should he more 
than superficial, and I flatter myself that she will 
not remain long enough at school to understand 
anything thoroughly. I hope to see her the wife 
of Sir James within a twelvemonth. You know 
on what I ground my hope, and it is certainly a 
good foundation, for school must he very humilia- 
ting to a girl of Frederica’s age. And by the by, 
you had better not invite her any more on that 
account, as I wish her to find her situation as un- 
pleasant as possible. I am sure of Sir James at 
any time, and could make him renew his appli- 
cation by a line. I shall trouble you meanwhile 
to prevent his forming any other attachment when 
he comes to town. Ask him to your house occa- 
sionally, and talk to him of Frederica, that he 
may not forget her. Upon the whole, I commend 
my Own conduct in this affair extremely, and re- 
gard it as a very happy instance of circumspection 
and tenderness. Some mothers would have in- 
sisted on their daughter’s accepting so good an 
offer on the first overture ; but I could not recon- 
cile it to myself to force Frederica into a marriage 
from which her heart revolted, and instead of 
adopting so harsh a measure merely propose to 
make it her own choice, by rendering her thor- 
oughly uncomfortable till she does accept him — 
But enough of this tiresome girl. You may well 
wonder how I contrive to pass my time here, and 
for the first week it was insufferably dull. Now, 
however, we begin to mend; our party is enlarged 
by Mrs. Vernon’s brother, a handsome young man, 
who promises me som.e amusement. There is 


LADY SUSAN. 


21 


something about him which rather interests me, 
a sort of sauciness and familiarity which I shall 
teach him to correct. He is lively, and seems 
clever; and when I have inspired him with greater 
respect for me than his sister’s kind offices have 
implanted, he may be an agreeable flirt. There is 
exquisite pleasure in subduing an insolent spirit, 
in making a person predetermined to dislike ac- 
knowledge one’s superiority. I have disconcerted 
him already by my calm reserve, and it shall be 
my endeavor to humble the pride of these self- 
important De Courcys still lower, to convince Mrs. 
Vernon that her sisterly cautions have been be- 
stowed in vain, and to persuade Reginald that she 
has scandalously belied me. This project will 
serve at least to amuse me, and prevent my feeling 
so acutely this dreadful separation from you and 
all whom I love. 

Yours ever, 

S. Vernon. 


VIII. 

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy. 

Churchhill. 

My dear Mother, — You must not expect 
Reginald back again for some time. He desires 
me to tell you that the present open weather in- 
duces him to accept Mr. Vernon’s invitation to 
prolong his stay in Sussex, that they may have 
some hunting together. He means to send for his 
horses immediately, and it is impossible to say 


22 


LADY SUSAN. 


when you may see him in Kent. I will not dis* 
guise my sentiments on this change from you, my 
dear mother, though I think you had better not 
communicate them to my father, whose excessive 
anxiety about Reginald would subject him to an 
alarm which might seriously affect his health and 
spirits. Lady Susan has certainly contrived, in 
the space of a fortnight, to make my brother like 
her. In short I am persuaded that his continuing 
here beyond the time originally fixed for his re- 
turn is occasioned as much by a degree of fascina- 
tion towards her, as by the wish of hunting with 
Mr. Vernon, and of course I cannot receive that 
pleasure from the length of his visit which my 
brother’s company would otherwise give me. I 
am, indeed, provoked at the artifice of this unprin- 
cipled woman; what stronger proof of her danger- 
ous abilities can be given than this perversion of 
Reginald’s judgment, which when he entered the 
house was so decidedly against her? In his last 
letter he actually gave me some particulars of her 
behavior at Langford, such as he received from a 
gentleman who knew her perfectly well, which, if 
true, must raise abhorrence against her, and which 
Reginald himself was entirely disposed to credit. 
His opinion of her, I am sure, was as low as of 
any woman in England; and when he first came it 
was evident that he considered her as one entitled 
neither to delicacy nor respect, and that he felt 
she would be delighted with the attentions of any 
man inclined to flirt with her. Her behavior, I 
confess, has been calculated to do away with such 
an idea; I have not detected the smallest impro 


LADY SUSAN. 


23 


priety in it — nothing of vanity, of pretension, of 
levity; and she is altogether so attractive that I 
should not wonder at his being delighted with 
her, had he known nothing of her previous to this 
personal acquaintance; hut against reason, against 
conviction, to he so well pleased with her, as I am 
sure he is, does really astonish me. His admira- 
tion was at first very strong, hut no more than 
was natural, and I did not wonder at his being 
much struck by the gentleness and delicacy of her 
manners; hut when he has mentioned her of late 
it has been in terms of more extraordinary praise; 
and yesterday he actually said that he could not he 
surprised at any effect produced on the heart of 
man by such loveliness and such abilities; and 
when I lamented, in reply, the badness of her dis- 
position, he observed that whatever might have 
been her errors they were to be imputed to her 
neglected education and early marriage, and that 
she was altogether a wonderful woman. This 
tendency to excuse her conduct, or to forget it, in 
the warmth of admiration, vexes me; and if I did 
not know that Reginald is too much at home at 
Churchhill to need an invitation for lengthening 
his visit, I should regret Mr. Vernon’s giving him 
any. Lady Susan’s intentions are of course those 
of absolute coquetry, or a desire of universal ad- 
miration ; I cannot for a moment imagine that she 
has anything more serious in view; but it morti- 
fies me to see a young man of Reginald’s sense 
duped by her at all. 

I am, etc., 

Catherine Vernon. 


24 


LADY SUSAN. 


IX. 

Mrs. Johnson to Lady S. Vernon. 

Edward Street. 

My dearest Friend, — I congratulate you on 
Mr. De Courcy’s arrival, and I advise you by all 
means to marry him; his father’s estate is, we 
know, considerable, and I believe certainly en- 
tailed. Sir Reginald is very infirm, and not likely 
to stand in your way long. I hear the young man 
well spoken of; and though no one can really de- 
serve you, my dearest Susan, Mr. De Courcy may 
be worth having. Mainwaring will storm of 
course, but you may easi’iy pacify him; besides, 
the most scrupulous point of honor could not require 
you to wait for his emancipation. I have seen Sir 
James ; he came to town for a few days last week, 
and called several times in Edward Street. I 
talked to him about you and your daughter, and 
he is so far from having forgotten you that I am 
sure he would marry either of you with pleasure. 
I gave him hopes of Frederica’s relenting, and 
told him a great deal of her improvements. I 
scolded him for making love to Maria Mainwaring; 
he protested that he had heen only in joke, and 
we both laughed heartily at her disappointment; 
and, in short, were very agreeable. He is as silly 
as ever. 


Yours faithfully. 


Alicia. 


LADY SUSAN. 


25 


X. 

Lady Susan Vernon to Mrs. Johnson. 

Churchhill. 

I AM much obliged to you, my dear friend, for 
your advice respecting Mr. De Courcy, which I 
know was given with the full conviction of its ex- 
pediency, though I am not quite determined on fol- 
lowing it. I cannot easily resolve on anything 
so serious as marriage; especially as I am not at 
present in want of money, and might perhaps, till 
the old gentleman’s death, be very little benefited 
by the match. It is true that I am vain enough 
to believe it within my reach. I have made him 
sensible of my power, and can now enjoy the 
pleasure of triumphing over a mind prepared to 
dislike me, and prejudiced against all my past 
actions. His sister, too, is, I hope, convinced how 
little the ungenerous representations of any one to 
the disadvantage of another will avail when op- 
posed by the immediate influence of intellect and 
manner. I see plainly that she is uneasy at my 
progress in the good opinion of her brother, and con- 
clude that nothing will be wanting on her part to 
counteract me; but having once made him doubt 
the justice of her opinion of me, I think I may 
defy her. It has been delightful to me to watch 
his advances towards intimacy, especially to ob- 
serve his altered manner in consequence of my 
repressing by the cool dignity of my deportment 
his insolent approach to direct familiarity. My 


26 


LADY SUSAN. 


conduct lias been equally guarded from the first, 
and I never behaved less like a coquette in the 
whole course of my life, though perhaps my desire 
of dominion was never more decided. I have sub- 
dued him entirely by sentiment and serious con- 
versation, and made him, I may venture to say, at 
least half in love with me, without the semblance 
of the most commonplace flirtation. Mrs. Ver- 
non’s consciousness of deserving every sort of re- 
venge that it can be in my power to inflict for her 
ill-ofiSees could alone enable her to perceive that I 
am actuated by any design in behavior so gentle 
and unpretending. Let her think and act as she 
chooses, however. I have never yet found that 
the advice of a sister could prevent a young man’s 
being in love if he chose. We are advancing now 
to some kind of confidence, and in short are likely 
to be engaged in a sort of platonic friendship. 
On my side you may be sure of its never being 
more, for if I were not attached to another person 
as much as I can be to any one, I should make a 
point of not bestowing my affection on a man who 
had dared to think so meanly of me. Reginald 
has a good figure, and is not unworthy the praise 
you have heard given him, but is still greatly 
inferior to our friend at Langford. He is less 
polished, less insinuating than Mainwaring, and 
is comparatively deficient in the power of saying 
those delightful things which put one in good 
humor with oneself and all the world. He is 
quite agreeable enough, however, to afford me 
amusement, and to make many of those hours pass 
very pleasantly which would otherwise be spent in 


LADY SUSAN. 


27 


endeavoring to overcome my sister-in-law’s reserve, 
and listening to the insipid talk of her husband. 
Your account of Sir James is most satisfactory, 
and I mean to give Miss Frederica a hint of my 
intentions very soon. 

Yours, etc., 

S. Vernon. 


XT. 


Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy. 

Chdrchhill. 

I REALLY grow quite uneasy, my dearest mother, 
about Reginald, from witnessing the very rapid 
increase of Lady Susan’s influence. They are now 
on terms of the most particular friendship, fre- 
quently engaged in long conversations together; 
and she has contrived by the most artful coquetry 
to subdue his judgment to her own purposes. It 
is impossible to see the intimacy between them so 
very soon established without some alarm, though 
I can hardly suppose that Lady Susan’s plans ex- 
tend to marriage. I wish you could get Reginald 
home again on any plausible pretence; he is not at 
all disposed to leave us, and I have given him as 
many hints of my father’s precarious state of 
health as common decency will allow me to do in 
my own house. Her power over him must now 
be boundless, as she has entirely effaced all his 
former ill-opinion, and persuaded him not merely 
to forget but to justify her conduct. Mr. Smith’s 
account of her proceedings at Langford, where he 
accused her of having made Mr. Mainwaring and a 


28 


LADY SUSAN. 


young man engaged to Miss Mainwaring distract- 
edly in love with her, which Reginald firmly be- 
lieved when he came here, is now, he is persuaded, 
only a scandalous invention. He has told me so 
with a warmth of manner which spoke his regret 
at having believed the contrary himself. How 
sincerely do I grieve that she ever entered this 
house! I always looked forward to her coming 
with uneasiness; but very far was it from origi- 
nating in anxiety for Reginald. I expected a most 
disagreeable companion for myself, but could not 
imagine that my brother would be in the smallest 
danger of being captivated by a woman with whose 
principles he was so well acquainted, and whose 
character he so heartily despised. If you can get 
him away, it will be a good thing. 

Yours, etc., 

Catherine Vernon. 


XII. 

Sir Reginald de Courcy to his Son. 

Parklands. 

I KNOW that young men in general do not admit 
of any inquiry even from their nearest relations 
into affairs of the heart, but I hope, my dear 
Reginald, that you will be superior to such as 
allow nothing for a father’s anxiety, and think 
themselves privileged to refuse him their confidence 
and slight his advice. You must be sensible that as 
an only son, and the representative of an ancient 
family, your conduct in life is most interesting to 
your connections ; and in the very important con- 


LADY SUSAN. 


29 


cern of marriage especially, there is everything at 
stake — your own happiness, that of your parents, 
and the credit of your name. I do not suppose 
that you would deliberately form an absolute en- 
gagement of that nature without acquainting your 
mother and myself, or at least without being con- 
vinced that we should approve of your choice; but 
I cannot help fearing that you may be drawn in, 
by the lady who has lately attached you, to a 
marriage which the whole of your family, far and 
near, must highly reprobate. Lady Susan’s age 
is itself a material objection, but her want of 
character is one so much more serious that the 
difference of even twelve years becomes in com- 
parison of small amount. Were you not blinded 
by a sort of fascination, it would be ridiculous in 
me to repeat the instances of great misconduct on 
her side so very generally known. 

Her neglect of her husband, her encouragement 
of other men, her extravagance and dissipation, 
were so gross and notorious that no one could be 
ignorant of them at the time, nor can now have 
forgotten them. To our family she has always 
been represented in softened colors by the benev- 
olence of Mr. Charles Vernon, and yet, in spite 
of his generous endeavors to excuse her, we know 
that she did, from the most selfish motives, take 
all possible pains to prevent his marriage with 
Catherine. 

My years and increasing infirmities make me 
very desirous of seeing you settled in the world. 
To the fortune of a wife, the goodness of my own 
will make me indifferent, but her family and 


30 


LADY SUSAN. 


character must be equally unexceptionable. Wben 
your choice is fixed so that no objection can be 
made to it, then I can promise you a ready and 
cheerful consent; but it is my duty to oppose a 
match which deep art only could render possible, 
and must in the end make wretched. It is possi- 
ble her behavior may arise only from vanity, or 
the wish of gaining the admiration of a man whom 
she must imagine to be particularly prejudiced 
against her; but it is more likely that she should 
aim at something further. She is poor, and may 
naturally seek an alliance which must be advan- 
tageous to herself; you know your own rights, and 
that it is out of my power to prevent your inherit- 
ing the family estate. My ability of distressing 
you during my life would be a species of revenge 
to w'hich I could hardly stoop under any circum- 
stances. 

I honestly tell you my sentiments and inten- 
tions : I do not wish to work on your fears, but on 
your sense and affection. It would destroy every 
comfort of my life to know that you were married 
to Lady Susan Vernon: it would be the death of 
that honest pride with which I have hitherto con- 
sidered my son ; I should blush to see him, to hear 
of him, to think of him. I may perhaps do no 
good but that of relieving my own mind by this 
letter, but I felt it my duty to tell you that your 
partiality for Lady Susan is no secret to your 
friends, and to warn you against her. I should 
be glad to hear your reasons for disbelieving Mr. 
Smith’s intelligence; you had no doubt of its 
authenticity a month ago. If you can give me your 


LADY SUSAN. 


31 


assurance of having no design beyond enjoying the 
conversation of a clever woman for a short period, 
and of yielding admiration only to her beauty and 
abilities, without being blinded by them to her 
faults, you will restore me to happiness; but if 
you cannot do this, explain to me, at least, what 
has occasioned so great an alteration in your 
opinion of her. 

I am, etc., etc., 

Keginald de Courcy. 

XIII. 

Lady De Courcy to Mrs. Vernon. 

Parklands. 

My dear Catherine, — Unluckily I was con- 
fined to my room when your last letter came, by a 
cold which affected my eyes so much as to prevent 
my reading it myself, so I could not refuse your 
father when he offered to read it to me, by which 
means he became acquainted, to my great vexa- 
tion, with all your fears about your brother. I 
had intended to write to Reginald myself as soon 
as my eyes would let me, to point out as well as I 
could the danger of an intimate acquaintance 
with so artful a woman as Lady Susan, to a young 
man of his age and high expectations. I meant, 
moreover, to have reminded him of our being 
quite alone now, and very much in need of him to 
keep up our spirits these long winter evenings. 
Whether it would have done any good can never 
be settled now, but I am excessively vexed that 
Sir Reginald should know anything of the matter 


32 


LADY SUSAN. 


which we foresaw would make him so uneasy. He 
caught all your fears the moment he had read your 
letter, and I am sure he has not had the business 
out of his head since. He wrote by the same post 
to Reginald a long letter full of it all, and partic- 
ularly asking an explanation of what he may have 
heard from Lady Susan to contradict the late 
shocking reports. His answer came this morn- 
ing, which I shall enclose to you, as I think you 
will like to see it. I wish it was more satisfac- 
tory j but it seems written with such a determi- 
nation to think well of Lady Susan, that his 
assurances as to marriage, etc., do not set my 
heart at ease. I say all I can, however, to satisfy 
your father, and he is certainly less uneasy since 
Reginald’s letter. How provoking it is, my dear 
Catherine, that this unwelcome guest of yours 
should not only prevent our meeting this Christ- 
mas, but be the occasion of so much vexation and 
trouble ! Kiss the dear children for me. 

Your affectionate mother, 

C. DE COURCY. 


XIV. 

Mr. De Courcy to Sir Reginald. 

Churchhill. 

My dear Sir, — I have this moment received 
your letter, which has given me more astonish- 
ment than I ever felt before. I am to thank my 
sister, I suppose, for having represented me in 
such a light as to injure me in your opinion, and 
give you all this alarm. I know not why she 


LADY SUSAN. 


33 


should choose to make herself and her family un- 
easy by apprehending an event which no one but 
herself, I can affirm, would ever have thought 
possible. To impute such a design to Lady Susan 
would be taking from her every claim to that ex- 
cellent understanding which her bitterest enemies 
have never denied herj and equally low must sink 
my pretensions to common sense if I am suspected 
of matrimonial views in my behavior to her. Our 
difference of age must be an insuperable objec- 
tion, and I entreat you, my dear father, to quiet 
your mind, and no longer harbor a suspicion 
which cannot be more injurious to your own peace 
than to our understandings. I can have no other 
view in remaining with Lady Susan, than to enjoy 
for a short time (as you have yourself expressed it) 
the conversation of a woman of high intellectual 
powers. If Mrs. Vernon would allow something 
to my affection for herself and her husband in the 
length of my visit, she would do more justice to 
us all ; but my sister is unhappily prejudiced be- 
yond the hope of conviction against' Lady Susan. 
Erom an attachment to her husband, which in it- 
self does honor to both, she cannot forgive the 
endeavors at preventing their union, which have 
been attributed to selfishness in Lady Susan j but 
in this case, as well as in many others, the world 
has most grossly injured that lady, by supposing 
the worst where the motives of her conduct have 
been doubtful. Lady Susan had heard something 
so materially to the disadvantage of my sister as 
to persuade her' that the happiness of Mr. Vernon, 
to whom she was always much attached, would be 
3 


34 


LADY SUSAN. 


wholly destroyed by the marriage. And this cir- 
cumstance, w'hile it explains the true motives of 
Lady Susan^s conduct, and removes all the blame 
which has been so lavished on her, may also con- 
vince us how little the general report of any one 
ought to be credited; since no character, however 
upright, can escape the malevolence of slander. 
If my sister, in the security of retirement, with 
as little opportunity as inclination to do evil, 
could not avoid censure, we must not rashly con- 
demn those who, living in the world and sur- 
rounded with temptations, should be accused of 
errors which they are known to have the power 
of committing. 

I blame myself severely for having so easily be- 
lieved the slanderous tales invented by Charles 
Smith to the prejudice of Lady Susan, as I am now 
convinced how greatly they have traduced her. 
As to Mrs. Mainwaring’s jealousy it was totally 
his own invention, and his account of her attach- 
ing Miss Mainwaring’s lover was scarcely better 
founded. Sir James Martin had been drawn in 
by that young lady to pay her some attention; 
and as he is a man of fortune, it was easy to see 
her views extended to marriage. It is well knowm 
that Miss M. is absolutely on the catch for a hus- 
band, and no one therefore can pity her for losing, 
by the superior attractions of another woman, the 
chance of being able to make a worthy man com- 
pletely wretched. Lady Susan was far from in- 
tending such a conquest, and on finding how 
warmly Miss Mainwaring resented her lover’s de- 
fection, determined, in spite of Mr. and Mrs. 


LADY SUSAN. 


35 


Mainwaring’s most urgent entreaties, to leave the 
family. I have reason to imagine she did receive 
serious proposals from Sir James, but her removing 
to Langford immediately on the discovery of his 
attachment, must acquit her on that article with 
any mind of common candor. You will, I am 
sure, my dear Sir, feel the truth of this, and will 
hereby learn to do justice to the character of a 
very injured woman. I know that Lady Susan in 
coming to Churchhill was governed only by the 
most honorable and amiable intentions; her pru- 
dence and economy are exemplary, her regard for 
Mr. Vernon equal even to his deserts; and her wish 
of obtaining my sister’s good opinion merits a bet- 
ter return than it has received. As a mother she is 
unexceptionable; her solid affection for her child 
is shown by placing her in hands where her educa- 
tion will be properly attended to; but because she 
has not the blind and weak partiality of most 
mothers, she is accused of wanting maternal ten- 
derness. Every person of sense, however, will 
know how to value and commend her well-directed 
affection, and will join me in wishing that Fred- 
erica Vernon may prove more worthy than she has 
yet done of her mother’s tender care. I have now, 
my dear father, written my real sentiments of Lady 
Susan; you will know from this letter how highly 
I admire her abilities, and esteem her character; 
but if you are not equally convinced by my full 
and solemn assurance that your fears have been 
most idly created, you will deeply mortify and 
distress me. 

I am, etc., etc., 


K. DE COURCY. 


36 


LADY SUSAN. 


XY. 

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy. 

CnURCHHILL. 

My dear Mother, — I return you Reginald's 
letter, and rejoice with all my heart that my father 
is made easy by it: tell him so, with my congratu- 
lationsj but between ourselves, I must own it has 
only convinced me of my brother's having no 
present intention of marrying Lady Susan, not 
that he is in no danger of doing so three months 
hence. He gives a very plausible account of her 
behavior at Langford; I wish it may be true, but 
his intelligence must come from herself, and I am 
less disposed to believe it than to lament the de- 
gree of intimacy subsisting between them implied 
by the discussion of such a subject. I am sorry to 
have incurred his displeasure, but can expect noth- 
ing better while he is so very eager in Lady 
Susan’s justification. He is very severe against 
me indeed, and j^et I hope I have not been hasty 
in my judgment of her. Poor woman! though I 
have reasons enough for my dislike, I cannot help 
pitying her at present, as she is in real distress, 
and with too much cause. She had this morning 
a letter from the lady with whom she has placed 
her daughter, to request that Miss Vernon might 
be immediately removed, as she had been detected 
in an attempt to run away. Why, or whither she 
intended to go, does not appear ; but as her situa- 
tion seems to have been unexceptionable, it is a 


LADY SUSAN. 


37 


sad thing, and of course highly distressing to Lady 
Susan. Frederica must be as much as sixteen, 
and ought to know better; but from what her 
mother insinuates, I am afraid she is a perverse 
girl. She has been sadly neglected, however, and 
her mother ought to remember it. Mr. Vernon 
set off for London as soon as she had determined 
what should be done. He is, if possible, to pre- 
vail on Miss Summers to let Frederica continue 
with her; and if he cannot succeed, to bring her 
to Churchhill for the present, till some other situ- 
ation can be found for her. Her ladyship is com- 
forting herself meanwhile by strolling along the 
shrubbery with Reginald, calling forth all his 
tender feelings, I suppose, on this distressing 
occasion. She has been talking a great deal about 
it to me. She talks vastly well; I am afraid of 
being ungenerous, or I should say too well to feel 
so very deeply ; but I will not look for faults ; she 
may be Reginald’s wife! Heaven forbid it! but 
why should 1 be quicker-sighted than any one else? 
Mr. Vernon declares that he never saw deeper dis- 
tress than hers, on the receipt of the letter; and is 
his judgment inferior to mine? She was very un^ 
willing that Frederica should be allowed to come 
to Churchhill, and justly enough, as it seems a 
sort of reward to behavior deserving very differ- 
ently; but it was impossible to take her anywhere 
else, and she is not to remain here long. It 
will be absolutely necessary,” said she, ^‘as you, 
my dear sister, must be sensible, to treat my 
daughter with some severity while she is here; a 
most painful necessity, but I will endeavor to sub- 


38 


LADY SUSAN. 


mit to it. I am afraid 1 have often been too indub 
gent, but my poor Frederica^s temper could never 
bear opposition well: you must support and en- 
courage mej you must urge tbe necessity of re- 
proof if you see me too lenient.’’ All tbis sounds 
very reasonably. Keginald is so incensed against 
tbe poor silly girl! Surely it is not to Lady 
Susan’s credit that be should be so bitter against 
her daughter; bis idea of her must be drawn from 
the mother’s description. Well, whatever may be 
bis fate, we have tbe comfort of knowing that we 
have done our utmost to save him. We must 
commit tbe event to a higher power. 

Yours ever, etc. 

Cathekine Veknon. 


XVI. 

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson, 

Churchhill, 

Never, my dearest Alicia, was I so provoked in 
my life as by a letter this morning from Miss 
Summers. That horrid girl of mine has been try- 
ing to run away. I had not a notion of her being 
such a little devil before, she seemed to have all 
the Vernon milkiness; but on receiving the letter 
in which I declared my intention about Sir James, 
she actually attempted to elope ; at least, I cannot 
otherwise account for her doing it. She meant, I 
suppose, to go to the Clarks in Staffordshire, for 
she has no other acquaintances. But she shall be 


LADY SUSAN. 


39 


punished, she shall have him. I have sent 
Charles to town to make matters up if he can, 
for I do not by any means want her here. If 
Miss Summers will not keep her, you must find 
me out another school, unless we can get her mar- 
ried immediately. Miss S. writes word that she 
could not get the young lady to assign any cause 
for her extraordinary conduct, which confirms me 
in my own previous explanation of it. Frederica 
is too shy, I think, and too much in awe of me to 
tell tales; but if the mildness of her uncle should 
get anything out of her, I am not afraid. I trust 
I shall be able to make my story as good as hers. 
If I am vain of anything, it is of my eloquence. 
Consideration and esteem as surely follow com- 
mand of language as admiration waits on beauty, 
and here I have opportunity enough for the exer- 
cise of my talent, as the chief of my time is spent 
in conversation. 

Keginald is never easy unless we are by our- 
selves, and when the weather is tolerable, we pace 
the shrubbery for hours together. I like him on 
the whole very well ; he is clever and has a good 
deal to say, but he is sometimes impertinent and 
troublesome. There is a sort of ridiculous deli- 
cacy about him which requires the fullest expla- 
nation of whatever he may have heard to my 
disadvantage, and is never satisfied till he thinks 
he has ascertained the beginning and end of every- 
thing. This is one sort of love, but I confess it 
does not particularly recommend itself to me. I 
infinitely prefer the tender and liberal spirit of 
Main waring, which, impressed with the deepest 


40 


LADY SUSAN. 


conviction of my merit, is satisfied that whatever 
I do must he right; and look with a degree of con- 
tempt on the inquisitive and doubtful fancies of 
that heart which seems always debating on the rea- 
sonableness of its emotions. Mainwaring is in- 
deed, beyond all compare, superior to Reginald — 
superior in everything but the power of being with 
me! Poor fellow! he is much distracted by jeal- 
ousy, which I am not sorry for, as I know no 
better support of love. He has been teasing me to 
allow of his coming into this country, and lodging 
somewhere near incog , ; but I forbade everything 
of the kind. Those women are inexcusable who 
forget what is due to themselves, and the opinion 
of the world. 

Yours ever, 

S. Vernon. 


XVII. 

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy, 

Churchhill. * 

My dear Mother, — Mr. Vernon returned on 
Thursday night, bringing his niece with him. 
Lady Susan had received a line from him by that 
day’s post, informing her that Miss Summers had 
absolutely refused to allow of Miss Vernon’s con- 
tinuance in her academy; we were therefore 
prepared for her arrival, and expected them impa- 
tiently the whole evening. They came while we 
were at tea, and I never saw any creature look so 


LADY SUSAN. 


41 


frightened as Frederica when she entered the room. 
Lady Susan, who had been shedding tears before, 
and showing great agitation at the idea of the 
meeting, received her with perfect self-command, 
and without betraying the least tenderness of spirit. 
She hardly spoke to her, and on Frederica’s burst- 
ing into tears as soon as we were seated, took her 
out of the room, and did not return for some time. 
When she did, her eyes looked very red, and she 
was as much agitated as before. We saw no more 
of her daughter. Poor Eeginald was beyond meas- 
ure concerned to see his fair friend in such distress, 
and watched her with so much tender solicitude, 
that I, who occasionally caught her observing his 
countenance with exultation, was quite out of pa- 
tience. This pathetic representation lasted the 
whole evening, and so ostentatious and artful a 
display has entirely convinced me that she did in 
fact feel nothing. I am more angry with her than 
ever since T have seen her daughter; the poor girl 
looks so unhappy that my heart aches for her. 
Lady Susan is surely too severe, for Frederica does 
not seem to have the sort of temper to make sever- 
ity necessary. She looks perfectly timid, de- 
jected, and penitent. She is very pretty, though 
not so handsome as her mother, nor at all like her. 
Her complexion is delicate, but neither so fair nor 
so blooming as Lady Susan’s, and she has quite 
the Vernon cast of countenance, the oval face and 
mild dark eyes, and there is peculiar sweetness in 
her look when she speaks either to her uncle or me, 
for as we behave kindly to her we have of course 
engaged her gratitude. 


42 


LADY SUSAN. 


Her mother has insinuated that her temper is 
intractable, but 1 never saw a face less indicative 
of any evil disposition than hers; and from what 
I can see of the behavior of each to the other, the 
invariable severity of Lady Susan and the silent 
dejection of Frederica, I am led to believe as here- 
tofore that the former has no real love for her 
daughter, and has never done her justice or treated 
her affectionately. I have not been able to have 
any conversation with my niece; she is shy, and 
I think 1 can see that some pains are taken to pre- 
vent her being much with me. Nothing satisfac- 
tory transpires as to her reason for running away. 
Her kind-hearted uncle, you may be sure, was too 
fearful of distressing her to ask many questions as 
they travelled, I wish it had been possible for 
me to fetch her instead of him. I think I should 
have discovered the truth in the course of a thirty- 
mile journey. The small pianoforte has been re- 
moved within these few days, at Lady Susan’s 
request, into her dressing-room, and Frederica 
spends great part of the day there, practising as 
it is called; but I seldom hear any noise when I 
pass that way; what she does with herself there 
I do not know. There are plenty of books, but it 
is not every girl who has been running wild the 
first fifteen years of her life, that can or will read. 
Poor creature! the prospect from her window is not 
very instructive, for that room overlooks the lawn, 
you know, with the shrubbery on one side, where 
she may see her mother walking for an hour to- 
gether in earnest conversation with Keginald. A 
girl of Frederica’s age must be childish indeed, if 


LADY SUSAN. 


43 


such things do not strike her. Is it not inexcusa- 
ble to give such an example to a daughter? Yet 
Reginald still thinks Lady Susan the best of 
mothers, and still condemns Frederica as a worth- 
less girl! He is convinced that her attempt to 
run away proceeded from no justifiable cause, and 
had no provocation. I am sure I cannot say that 
it had, but while Miss Summers declares that Miss 
Vernon showed no signs of obstinacy or perverse- 
ness during her whole stay in AVigmore Street, 
till she was detected in this scheme, I cannot so 
readily credit what Lady Susan has made him, and 
wants to make me believe, that it was merely an 
impatience of restraint and a desire of escaping 
from the tuition of masters which brought on the 
plan of an elopement. O Reginald, how is jmur 
judgment enslaved! He scarcely dares even al- 
low her to be handsome, and when I speak of her 
beauty, replies only that her eyes have no bril- 
liancy! Sometimes he is sure she is deficient in 
understanding, and at others that her temper only 
is in fault. In short, when a person is alwa^^s to 
deceive, it is impossible to be consistent. Lady 
Susan finds it necessary that Frederica should be 
to blame, and probably has sometimes judged it 
expedient to excuse her of ill-nature and some- 
times to lament her want of sense. Reginald is 
only repeating after her ladyship. 

I remain, etc., etc., 

Cathekine Vernon 


44 


LADY SUSAN. 


XVIII. 

From the same to the same. 

Chdrchhill. 

My dear Mother, — I am very glad to find 
that my description of Frederica Vernon has in- 
terested you, for I do believe her truly deserving 
of your regard; and when I have communicated a 
notion which has recently struck me, your kind 
impressions in her favor will, I am sure, be height- 
ened. I cannot help fancying that she is growing 
partial to my brother. I so very often see her eyes 
fixed on his face with a remarkable expression of 
pensive admiration. He is certainly very hand- 
some; and yet more, there is an openness in his 
manner that must be highly prepossessing, and I 
am sure she feels it so. Thoughtful and pensive 
in general, her countenance always brightens into 
a smile when Reginald says anything amusing; 
and, let the subject be ever so serious that he may 
be conversing on, I am much mistaken if a sylla- 
ble of his uttering escapes her. I want to make 
him sensible of all this, for we know the power 
of gratitude on such a heart as his; and could 
Frederica’s artless affection detach him from her 
mother, w^e might bless the day which brought her 
to Churchhill. I think, ray dear mother, you would 
not disapprove of her as a daughter. She is ex- 
tremely young, to be sure, has had a wretched 
education, and a dreadful example of levity in her 
mother; but yet I can pronounce her disposition 


LADY SUSAN. 


45 


to be excellent, and her natural abilities very good. 
Though totally without accomplishments, she is by 
no means so ignorant as one might expect to find 
her, being fond of books and spending the chief of 
her time in reading. Her mother leaves her more 
to herself than she did, and I have her with me as 
much as possible, and have taken great pains to 
overcome her timidity. We are very good friends, 
and though she never opens her lips before her 
mother, she talks enough when alone with me to 
make it clear that, if properly treated by Lady 
Susan, she would always appear to much greater 
advantage. There cannot be a more gentle, affec- 
tionate heart; or more obliging manners, when 
acting without restraint; and her little cousins are 
all very fond of her. 

Your affectionate daughter, 

C. Vernon. 


XIX. 

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson. 

Churchhill. 

You will be eager, I know, to hear something 
further of Frederica, and perhaps may think me 
negligent for not writing before. She arrived with 
her uncle last Thursday fortnight, when, of course, 
I lost no time in demanding the cause of her be- 
havior; and soon found myself to have been per- 
fectly right in attributing it to my own letter. 
The prospect of it frightened her so thoroughly 
that, with a mixture of true girlish perverseness 
and folly, she resolved on getting out of the house 


46 


LADY SUSAN. 


and proceeding directly by the stage to her friends, 
the Clarkes; and had really got as far as the 
length of two streets in her journey when she 
was fortunately missed, pursued, and overtaken. 
Such was the first distinguished exploit of Miss 
Frederica Vernon; and if we consider that it was 
achieved at the tender age of sixteen, we shall 
have room for the most flattering prognostics of her 
future renown. I am excessively provoked, how- 
ever, at the parade of propriety which prevented 
Miss Summers from keeping the girl; and it seems 
so extraordinary a piece of nicety, considering my 
daughter’s family connections, that I can only 
suppose the lady to be governed by the fear of 
never getting her money. Be that as it may, how- 
ever, Frederica is returned on my hands ; and hav- 
ing nothing else to employ her, is busy in pursuing 
the plan of romance begun at Langford. She is 
actually falling in love with Reginald de Courcy! 
To disobey her mother by refusing an unexcep- 
tionable offer is not enough; her affections must 
also be given without her mother’s approbation. 
I never saw a girl of her age bid fairer to be the 
sport of mankind. Her feelings are tolerably 
acute, and she is so charmingly artless in their 
display as to afford the most reasonable hope of 
her being ridiculous, and despised by every man 
who sees her. 

Artlessness will never do in 'love matters; and 
that girl is born a simpleton who has it either by 
nature or affectation. I am not yet certain that 
Reginald sees what she is about, nor is it of much 
consequence. She is now an object of indifference 


LADY SUSAN. 


47 


to him, and she would he one of contempt were he 
to understand her emotions. Her beauty is much 
admired by the Vernons, hut it has no effect on 
him. She is in high favor with her aunt alto- 
gether, because she is so little like myself, of 
course. She is exactly the companion for Mrs. 
Vernon, who dearly loves to be first, and to have 
all the sense and all the wit of the conversation to 
herself; Frederica will never eclipse her. When 
she first came I was at some pains to prevent her 
seeing much of her aunt; hut I have relaxed, as I 
believe I may depend on her observing the rules I 
have laid down for their discourse. But do not 
imagine that with all this lenity I have for a mo- 
ment given up my plan of her marriage. No; I 
am unalterably fixed on this point, though I have 
not yet quite decided on the manner of bringing it 
about. I should not choose to have the business 
brought on here, and canvassed by the wise heads 
of Mr. and Mrs. Vernon; and I cannot just now 
afford to go to town. Miss Frederica must there- 
fore wait a little. 

Yours ever, S. Vernon. 

XX. 

My’s. Vernon to Lady De Courcy. 

Churchhill. 

We have a very unexpected guest with us at 
present, my dear mother : he arrived yesterday. I 
heard a carriage at the door, as I was sitting with 
my children while they dined; and supposing I 


48 


LADY SUSAN. 


should be wanted, left the nursery soon afterwards, 
and was half-way downstairs, when Frederica, as 
pale as ashes, came running up, and rushed by me 
into her own room. I instantly followed, and 
asked her what was the matter. Oh! ’’ said she, 
‘<he is come — Sir James is come, and what shall 
I do!’’ This was no explanation; I begged her 
to tell me what she meant. At that moment we 
were interrupted by a knock at the door: it was 
Keginald, who came, by Lady Susan’s direction, 
to call Frederica down. It is Mr. De Courcy ! ” 
said she, coloring violently. ‘‘Mamma has sent 
for me; I must go.” We all three went down to- 
gether; and I saw my brother examining the 
terrified face of Frederica with surprise. In the 
breakfast-room we found Lady Susan, and a young 
man of gentlemanlike appearance, whom she intro- 
duced by the name of Sir James Martin — the 
very person, as you may remember, whom it was 
said she had been at pains to detach from Miss 
Mainwaring; but the conquest, it seems, was not 
designed for herself, or she has since transferred it 
to her daughter; for Sir James is now desperately 
in love with Frederica, and with full encourage- 
ment from mamma. The poor girl, however, I am 
sure, dislikes him; and though his person and ad- 
dress are very w'ell, he appears, both to Mr. Vernon 
and me, a very weak young man. Frederica looked 
so shy, so confused, when we entered the room, that 
I felt for her exceedingly. Lady Susan behaved 
with great attention to her visitor; and yet I 
thought I could perceive that she had no particular 
pleasure in seeing him. Sir James talked a great 


LADY SUSAN. 


40 


deal, and made many civil excuses to me for the 
liberty he had taken in coming to Churchhill — 
mixing more frequent laughter with his discourse 
than the subject required — said many things over 
and over again, and told Lady Susan three times 
that he had seen Mrs. Johnson a few evenings 
before. He now and then addressed Frederica, 
but more frequently her mother. The poor girl 
sat all this time without opening her lips — her 
eyes cast down, and her color varying every in- 
stant; while Reginald observed all that passed in 
perfect silence. At length Lady Susan, weary, 
I believe, of her situation, proposed walking; and 
we left the two gentlemen together, to put on our 
pelisses. As we went upstairs Lady Susan begged 
permission to attend me for a few moments in my 
dressing-room, as she was anxious to speak with 
me in private. I led her thither accordingly, and 
as soon as the door was closed, she said: I was 
never more surprised in my life than by Sir 
James’s arrival, and the suddenness of it requires 
some apology to you, my dear sister; though to 
me, as a mother, it is highly flattering. He is so 
extremely attached to my daughter that he could 
not exist longer without seeing her. Sir James is 
a young man of an amiable disposition and excellent 
character; a little too much of the rattle, perhaps, 
but a year or two will rectify that: and he is in 
other respects so very eligible a match for Fred- 
erica, that I have always observed his attachment 
with the greatest pleasure; and am persuaded that 
you and my brother will give the alliance your 
hearty approbation. I have never before mentioned 
4 


50 


LADY SUSAN. 


the likelihood of its taking place to any one, because 
I thought that whilst Frederica continued at school 
it had better not be known to exist; but now, as I 
am convinced that Frederica is too old ever to sub- 
mit to school confinement, and have therefore 
begun to consider her union with Sir James as not 
very distant, I had intended within a few days to 
acquaint yourself and Mr. Vernon with the whole 
business. I am sure, my dear sister, you will ex- 
cuse my remaining silent so long, and agree with 
me that such circumstances, while they continue 
from any cause in suspense, cannot he too cau- 
tiously concealed. When ^mu have the happiness 
of bestowing your sweet little Catherine, some 
years hence, on a man who in connection and 
character is alike unexceptionable, you will know 
what I feel now; though, thank Heaven, you can- 
not have all my reasons for rejoicing in such an 
event. Catherine will be amply provided for, and 
not, like my Frederica, indebted to a fortunate 
establishment for the comforts of life.’’ She con- 
cluded by demanding my congratulations. I gave 
them somewhat awkwardly, I believe; for, in fact, 
the sudden disclosure of so important a matter 
took from me the power of speaking with any 
clearness. She thanked me, however, most affec- 
tionately, for my kind concern in the welfare of 
herself and daughter; and then said: ‘‘lam not 
apt to deal in professions, my dear Mrs. Vernon, 
and I never had the convenient talent of affecting 
sensations foreign to my heart; and therefore 1 
trust you will believe me when I declare that 
much as I had heard in your praise before I knew 


LADY SUSAN. 


51 


you, I had no idea that I should ever love you as I 
now do; and I must further say that your friend- 
ship towards me is more particularly gratifying 
because I have reason to believe that some attempts 
were made to prejudice you against me. I only 
wish that they, whoever they are to whom I am 
indebted for such kind intentions, could see the 
terms on which we now are together, and under- 
stand the real affection we feel for each other; but 
I will not detain you any longer. God bless you 
for your goodness to me and my girl, and continue 
to you all your present happiness.’’ What can one 
say of such a woman, my dear mother? Such 
earnestness, such solemnity of expression! and yet 
I cannot help suspecting the truth of everything 
she says. As for Reginald, I believe he does not 
know what to make of the matter. When Sir 
James came, he appeared all astonishment and 
perplexity; the folly of the young man and the 
confusion of Frederica entirely engrossed him; and 
though a little private discourse with Lady Susan 
has since had its effect, he is still hurt, I am sure, 
at her allowing of such a man’s attentions to her 
daughter. Sir James invited himself with great 
composure to remain here a few days — hoped we 
would not think it odd, was aware of its being 
very impertinent, but he took the liberty of a rela- 
tion; and concluded by wishing, with a laugh, 
that he might be really one very soon. Even Lady 
Susan seemed a little disconcerted by this forward- 
ness; in her heart I am persuaded she sincerely 
wished him gone. But something must be done 
for this poor girl, if her feelings are such as both I 


52 


LADY SUSAN. 


and her uncle believe them to he. She must not 
be sacrificed to policy or ambition, and she must 
not be left to suffer from the dread of it. The 
girl whose heart can distinguish Reginald de 
Courcy deserves, however he may slight her, a 
better fate than to be Sir James Martin’s wife. 
As soon as I can get her alone, I will discover the 
real truth ; but she seems to wish to avoid me. I 
hope this does not proceed from anything wrong, 
and that I shall not find out I have thought too 
well of her. Her behavior to Sir James certainly 
speahs the greatest consciousness and embarrass- 
ment, but I see nothing in it more like encour- 
agement. Adieu, my dear mother. 

Yours, etc< 

C. Vernon. 


XXI. 

Miss Vernon to Mr, De Courcy. 

Sir, — I hope you will excuse this liberty; I am 
forced upon it by the greatest distress, or I should 
be ashamed to trouble you. I am very miserable 
about Sir James Martin, and have no other way in 
the world of helping myself but by writing to you, 
for I am forbidden even speaking to my uncle and 
aunt on the subject; and this being the case, I am 
afraid my applying to you will appear no better 
than equivocation, and as if I attended to the letter 
and not the spirit of mamma’s commands. But if 
you do not take my part and persuade her to break 
it off, I shall be half distracted, for I cannot bear 


LADY SUSAN. 


53 


him. No human being but you could have any 
chance of prevailing with her. If you will, there- 
fore, have the unspeakably great kindness of taking 
my part with her, and persuading her to send Sir 
James away, I shall be more obliged to you than it 
is possible for me to express. I always disliked 
him from the first: it is not a sudden fancy, I as- 
sure you, sir; I always thought him silly and 
impertinent and disagreeable, and now he is grown 
worse than ever. 1 would rather work for my bread 
than marry him. 1 do not know how to apologize 
enough for this letter; I know it is taking so great 
a liberty. I am aware how dreadfully angry it will 
make mamma, but I remember the risk. 

1 am, Sir, your most humble servant, 

F. S. V. 


XXII. 

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson. 

Churchhill. 

This is insufferable! My dearest friend, I was 
never so enraged before, and must relieve myself 
by writing to you, who I know will enter into all 
my feelings. Who should come on Tuesday but 
Sir James Martin! Guess my astonishment and 
vexation — for, as you well know, I never wished 
him to be seen at Churchhill. What a pity that 
you should not have known his intentions! Not 
content with coming, he actually invited himself 
to remain here a few days. I could have poisoned 
him ! I made the best of it, however, and told my 


54 


LADY SUSAN. 


story with great success to Mrs. Vernon, who, 
whatever might be her real sentiments, said noth* 
ing in opposition to mine. I made a point also 
of Frederica’s behaving civilly to Sir James, and 
gave her to understand that I was absolutely de- 
termined on her marrying him. She said some- 
thing of her misery, but that was all. I have for 
some time been more particularly resolved on the 
match from seeing the rapid increase of her affec- 
tion for Eeginald, and from not feeling secure that 
a knowledge of such affection might not in the 
end awaken a return. Contemptible as a regard 
founded only on compassion must make them both 
in my eyes, I felt by no means assured that such 
might not be the consequence. It is true that 
Reginald had not in any degree grown cool towards 
mej but yet he has lately mentioned Frederica 
spontaneously and unnecessarily, and once said 
something in praise of her person. He was all as- 
tonishment at the appearance of my visitor, and at 
first observed Sir James with an attention which 
I was pleased to see not unmixed with jealousy; 
but unluckily it was impossible for me really to 
torment him, as Sir James, though extremely gal- 
lant to me, very soon made the whole party under- 
stand that his heart was devoted to my daughter. 
I had no great difficulty in convincing De Courcy, 
when we were alone, that I was perfectly justified, 
all things considered, in desiring the match; and 
the whole business seemed most comfortably ar- 
ranged. They could none of them help perceiving 
that Sir James was no Solomon; but I had posi- 
tively forbidden Frederica complaining to Charles 


LADY SUSAN. 


55 


Vernon or his wife, and they had therefore no 
pretence for interference; though my impertinent 
sister, I believe, wanted only opportunity for doing 
so. Everything, however, was going on calmly 
and quietly; and though I counted the hours of 
Sir James’s stay, my mind was entirely satisfied 
wdth the posture of affairs. Guess, then, what I 
must feel at the sudden disturbance of all my 
schemes; and that, too, from a quarter where I 
had least reason to expect it. Reginald came this 
morning into my dressing-room with a very un- 
usual solemnity of countenance, and after some 
preface informed me in so many words that he 
w'ished to reason with me on the impropriety and 
unkindness of allowing Sir James Martin to ad- 
dress my daughter contrary to her inclinations. I 
was all amazement. When I found that he was not 
to be laughed out of his design, I calmly begged an 
explanation, and desired to know by what he was 
impelled, and by whom commissioned to reprimand 
me. He then told me, mixing in his speech a few 
insolent compliments and ill-timed expressions of 
tenderness, to which I listened with perfect indif- 
ference, that my daughter had acquainted him with 
some circumstances concerning herself. Sir James, 
and me which had given him great uneasiness. In 
short, I found that she had in the first place actu- 
ally written to him to request his interference, and 
that, on receiving her letter, he had conversed with 
her on the subject of it, in order to understand the 
particulars, and to assure himself of her real wishes. 
I have not a doubt but that the girl took this op- 
portunity of making downright love to him. I ani 


56 


LADY SUSAN. 


convinced of it by the manner in which he spoke 
of her. Much good may such love do him ! I shall 
ever despise the man who can be gratified by the 
passion which he never wished to inspire, nor so- 
licited the avowal of. I shall always detest them 
both. He can have no true regard for me, or he 
would not have listened to her; and she, with her 
little rebellious heart and indelicate feelings, to 
throw herself into the protection of a young man 
with whom she has scarcely ever exchanged two 
words before! I am equally confounded at her im- 
pudence and his credulity. How dared he believe 
what she told him in my disfavor! Ought he not 
to have felt assured that I must have unanswerable 
motives for all that I had done? Where was his 
reliance on my sense and goodness then? Where 
the resentment which true love would have dic- 
tated against the person defaming me, — that per- 
son, too, a chit, a child, without talent or educa- 
tion, whom he had been always taught to despise? 
I was calm for some time; but the greatest degree 
of forbearance may be overcome, and I hope I was 
afterwards sufficiently keen. He endeavored, long 
endeavored, to soften my resentment; but that 
woman is a fool indeed who, while insulted by ac- 
cusation, can be worked on by compliments. At 
length he left me, as deeply provoked as myself ; 
and he showed his anger more. I was quite cool, 
but he gave w^ay to the most violent indignation; 
I may therefore expect it will the sooner subside, 
and perhaps his may be vanished forever, while 
mine will be found still fresh and implacable. He 
is now shut up in his apartment, whither I heard 


LADY SUSAN. 


57 


him go on leaving mine. How unpleasant, one 
would think, must be his reflections! but some 
people’s feelings are incomprehensible. I have 
not yet tranquillized myself enough to see Frede- 
rica. She shall not soon forget the occurrences of 
this day; she shall find that she has poured forth 
her tender tale of love in vain, and exposed herself 
forever to the contempt of the whole world, and 
the severest resentment of her injured mother. 

Your affectionate S. Vernon. 

XXIII. 

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy. 

Churchhill. 

Let me congratulate you, my dearest mother! 
The affair which has given us so much anxiety is 
drawing to a happy conclusion. Our prospect is 
most delightful ; and since matters have now taken 
so favorable a turn, I am quite sorry that I ever im- 
parted my apprehensions to you ; for the pleasure 
of learning that the danger is over is perhaps 
dearly purchased by all that you have previously 
suffered. I am so much agitated by delight that I 
can scarcely hold a pen; but am determined to 
send you a few short lines by James, that you may 
have some explanation of what must so greatly 
astonish you as that Keginald should be returning 
to Parklands. I was sitting about half an hour ago 
with Sir James in the breakfast-parlor, when my 
brother called me out of the room. I instantly saw 
that something was the matter; his complexion 
was raised, and he spoke with great emotion; you 


58 


LADY SUSAN. 


know his eager manner, my dear mother, when 
his mind is interested. “ Catherine,^’ said he, 
am going home to-day; I am sorry to leave you, 
but I must go : it is a great while since I have seen 
my father and mother. I am going to send James 
forward with my hunters immediately ; if you have 
any letter, therefore, he can take it. I shall not 
be at home myself till Wednesday or Thurs day, as 
I shall go through London, where I have business ; 
but before I leave you,’’ he continued, speaking in 
a lower tone, and with still greater energy, ^ ^ I 
must warn you of one thing, — do not let Frederica 
Vernon be made unhappy by that Martin. He 
wants to marry her; her mother promotes the 
match, but she cannot endure the idea of it. Be 
assured that I speak from the fullest conviction of 
the truth of what I say; I know that Frederica is 
made wretched by Sir James’s continuing here. 
She is a sweet girl, and deserves a better fate. 
Send him away immediately; he is only. a fool: but 
what her mother can mean. Heaven only knows! 
Good-by,” he added, shaking my hand with ear- 
nestness, ‘‘Ido not know when you will see me 
again; but remember what I tell you of Frederica; 
you must make it your business to see justice done 
her. She is an amiable girl, and has a very 
superior mind to what we have given her credit 
for.” He then left me, and ran upstairs. I would 
not try to stop him, for I know what his feelings 
must be. The nature of mine, as I listened to him, 
I need not attempt to describe; for a minute or two 
I remained in the same spot, overpowered by wonder 
of a most agreeable sort indeed; yet it required 


LADY SUSAN. 


59 


some consideration to be tranquilly happy. In about 
ten minutes after my return to the parlor Lady 
Susan entered the room. I concluded, of course, 
that she and Eeginald had been quarrelling, and 
looked with anxious curiosity for a confirmation of 
my belief in her face. Mistress of deceit, however, 
she appeared perfectly unconcerned, and after 
chatting on indifferent subjects for a short time, 
said to me, I find from Wilson that we are going 
to lose Mr. De Courcy, — is it true that he leaves 
Churchhill this morning I replied that it was. 
‘‘He told us nothing of all this last night,’’ said 
she, laughing, “or even this morning at breakfast; 
but perhaps he did not know it himself. Young 
men are often hasty in their resolutions, and not 
more sudden in forming than unsteady in keeping 
them. I should not be surprised if he were to 
change his mind at last, and not go.” She soon 
afterwards left the room. I trust, however, my 
. dear mother, that we have no reason to fear an 
alteration of his present plan; things have gone 
too far. They must have quarrelled, and about 
Yrederica too. Her calmness astonishes me. 
What delight will be yours in seeing him again, 
in seeing him still worthy your esteem, still 
capable of forming your happiness ! When I next 
write I shall be able to tell you that Sir James is 
gone. Lady Susan vanquished, and Frederica at 
peace. We have much to do, but it shall be done. 
I am all impatience to hear how this astonishing 
change was effected. I finish as I began with the 
warmest congratulations. 

Yours ever, etc., 


Cath. Vernon 


60 


LADY SUSAN. 


XXIV. 

From the same to the same. 

ClIURCHHILL. 

Little did I imagine, my dear mother, when I 
sent off my last letter, that the delightful pertur- 
bation of spirits I was then in would undergo 
so speedy, so melancholy a reverse. I never can 
sufficiently regret that I wrote to you at all. Yet 
who could have foreseen what has happened? My 
dear mother, every hope which made me so happy 
only two hours ago has vanished. The quarrel 
between Lady Susan and Eeginald is made up, and 
we are all as we were before. One point only is 
gained. Sir James Martin is dismissed. What 
are we now to look forward to? I am indeed 
disappointed; Eeginald was all but gone, his horse 
was ordered and all but brought to the door; who 
would not have felt safe? For half an hour I was 
in momentary expectation of his departure. After 
I had sent off my letter to you, I went to Mr. 
Vernon, and sat with him in his room talking over 
the whole matter, and then determined to look for 
Frederica, whom I had not seen since breakfast. 
I met her on the stairs, and saw that she was cry- 
ing. My dear aunt,’’ said she, he is going — 
Mr. De Courcy is going, and it is all my fault. I 
am afraid you will be very angry with me, but in- 
deed I had no idea it would end so. ” ^ < My love, ’ ’ I 

replied, do not think it necessary to apologize to 
me on that account. I shall feel myself under an 
obligation to any one who is the means of sending 


LADY SUSAN. 


G1 


my brother home, because,’^ recollecting myself, I 
know my father wants very much to see him. But 
what is it you have done to occasion all this?’’ 
She blushed deeply as she answered: was so 

unhappy about Sir James that I could not help — 
I have done something very wrong, I know; but 
you have not an idea of the misery I have been in : 
and mamma had ordered me never to speak to you or 
my uncle about it, and — ” You therefore spoke 
to my brother to engage his interference,” said I, 
to save her the explanation. ^^No; but I wrote 
to him, — I did indeed, I got up this morning 
before it was light, and was two hours about it; 
and when my letter was done I thought I never 
should have courage to give it. After breakfast, 
however, as I was going to my room, I met him 
in the passage, and then, as I knew that every- 
thing must depend on that moment, I forced my- 
self to give it. He was so good as to take it 
immediately. I dared not look at him, and ran 
away directly. I was in such a fright I could 
hardly breathe. My dear aunt, you do not know 
how miserable I have been. ” ^ ‘ Frederica, ” said I, 

^^you ought to have told me all your distresses. 
You would have found in me a friend al ways ready 
to assist you. Do you think that your uncle or I 
should not have espoused your cause as warmly 
as my brother? ” Indeed, I did not doubt your 
kindness,” said she, coloring again, ^^but I thought 
Mr. De Courcy could do any thing with my mother; 
but I was mistaken: they have had a dreadful 
quarrel about it, and he is going away. Mamma 
will never forgive me, and I shall be worse off than 


62 


LADY SUSAN. 


ever.’^ you shall not, ” I replied; such 

a point as this your mother’s prohibition ought 
not to have prevented your speaking to me on the 
subject. She has no right to make you unhappy, 
and she shall not do it. Your applying, however, 
to Eeginald can be productive only of good to all 
parties. I believe it is best as it is. Depend 
upon it that you shall not be made unhappy any 
longer.” At that moment how great was my 
astonishment at seeing Eeginald come out of 
Lady Susan’s dressing-room. My heart misgave 
me instantly. His confusion at seeing me was 
very evident. Erederica immediately disappeared. 
‘^Are you going?” I said; “you will find Mr. 
Vernon in his own room.” “Ho, Catherine,” he 
replied, “lam not going. Will you let me speak 
to you a moment? ” We went into my room. “ I 
find,” he continued, his confusion increasing as he 
spoke, “that I have been acting with my usual 
foolish impetuosity. I have entirely misunder- 
stood Lady Susan, and was on the point of leaving 
the house under a false impression of her conduct. 
There has been some very great mistake ; we have 
been all mistaken, I fancy. Frederica does not 
know her mother. Lady Susan means nothing hut 
her good, hut she will not make a friend of her. 
Lady Susan does not always know, therefore, what 
will make her daughter happy. Besides, I could 
have no right to interfere. Miss Vernon was mis- 
taken in applying to me. In short, Catherine, 
everything has gone wrong, but it is now all 
happily settled. Lady Susan, I believe, wishes to 
speak to you about it, if you are at leisure,” “ Oer- 


LADY SUSAN. 


63 


tainly/’ I replied, deeply sighing at the recital of 
so lame a story. I made no comments, however, 
for words would have been vain. 

Keginald was glad to get away; and I went to 
Lady Susan, curious, indeed, to hear her account 
of it. ^‘Did I not tell you,’^ said she, with a 
smile, that your brother would not leave us after 
all? a You did, indeed, replied I, very gravely; 
^^but I flattered myself you would be mistaken.’’ 
‘‘I should not have hazarded such an opinion,” 
returned she, if it had not at that moment 
occurred to me that his resolution of going might 
be occasioned by a conversation in which we had 
been this morning engaged, and which had ended 
very much to his dissatisfaction, from our not 
rightly understanding each other’s meaning. This 
idea struck me at the moment, and I instantly de- 
termined that an accidental dispute, in which I 
might probably be as much to blame as himself, 
should not deprive you of your brother. If you 
remember, I left the room almost immediately. I 
was resolved to lose no time in clearing up those 
mistakes as far as I could. The case was this — 
Frederica had set herself violently against marry- 
ing Sir James.” And can your ladyship wonder 
that she should?” cried I, with some warmth; 

Frederica has an excellent understanding, and 
Sir James has none.” I am at least very far 
from regretting it, my dear sister,” said she; ^^on 
the contrary, I am grateful for so favorable a sign 
of my daughter’s sense. Sir James is certainly 
below par (his boyish manners make him appear 
worse); and had Frederica possessed the penetra- 


64 


LADY SUSAN. 


tion and the abilities which I could have wished 
in my daughter, or had I even known her to pos- 
sess as much as she does, I should not have been 
anxious for the match.’’ ‘^It is odd that you 
should alone be ignorant of your daughter’s sense ! ” 
Frederica never does justice to herself; her man- 
ners are shy and childish, and besides she is afraid 
of me. During her poor father’s life she was a 
spoilt child; the severity which it has since been 
necessary for me to show has alienated her affec- 
tion ; neither has she any of that brilliancy of in- 
tellect, that genius or vigor of mind which will 
force itself forward.” Say rather that she has 
been unfortunate in her education! ” ‘‘Heaven 
knows, my dearest Mrs. Vernon, how fully I am 
aware of that; but I would wish to forget every 
circumstance that might throw blame on the 
memory of one whose name is sacred with me.” 
Here she pretended to cry; I was out of patience 
with her. “But what,” said I, “was your lady- 
ship going to tell me about your disagreement with 
my brother? ” “It originated in an action of my 
daughter’s which equally marks her want of judg- 
ment and the unfortunate dread of me I have been 
mentioning, — she wrote to Mr. De Courcy.” “I 
know she did; you had forbidden her speaking to 
Mr. Vernon or to me on the cause of her distress; 
what could she do, therefore, but apply to my 
brother? ” “ Good God! ” she exclaimed, “ what 

an opinion you must have of me! Can you pos- 
sibly suppose that I was aware of her unhappiness, 
that it was my object to make my own child miser- 
able, and that I had forbidden her speaking to you 


LADY SUSAN. 


65 


on the subject from fear of your interrupting the 
diabolical scheme? Do you think me destitute of 
every honest, every natural feeling? Am I capable 
of consigning her to everlasting misery whose wel- 
fare it is my first earthly duty to promote? The 
idea is horrible!’’ “What, then, was your inten- 
tion when you insisted on her silence?” ^^Of 
what use, my dear sister, could be any application 
to you, however the affair might stand? Wliy 
should I subject you to entreaties which I refused 
to attend to myself? Neither for your sake nor 
for hers nor for my own, could such a thing be 
desirable. When my own resolution was taken, 
I could not wish for the interference, how’ever 
friendly, of another person. I was mistaken, it 
is true, but I believed myself right.” ^^But what 
was this mistake to which your ladyship so often 
alludes? from whence arose so astonishing a mis- 
conception of your daughter’s feelings? Did you 
not know that she disliked Sir James?” I knew 
that he was not absolutely the man she would have 
chosen, but I was persuaded that her objections to 
him did not arise from any perception of his defi- 
ciency. You must not question me, however, my 
dear sister, too minutely on this point,” continued 
she, taking me affectionately by the hand; 
honestly own that there is something to conceal. 
Frederica makes me very unhappy! Her applying 
to Mr. De Courcy hurt me particularly.” What 
is it you mean to infer,” said I, ^‘by this appear- 
ance of mystery? If you think your daughter at 
all attached to Reginald, her objecting to Sir 
James could not less deserve to be attended to 


66 


LADY SUSAN. 


than if the cause of her objecting had been a con- 
sciousness of his folly; and why should your lady- 
ship, at any rate, quarrel with my brother for an 
interference which you must know it is not in his 
nature to refuse when urged in such a manner? 

His disposition, you know, is warm, and he 
came to expostulate with me; his compassion all 
alive for this ill-used girl, this heroine in distress! 
We misunderstood each other: he believed me 
more to blame than I really was; I considered his 
interference less excusable than I now find it. I 
have a real regard for him, and was beyond ex- 
pression mortified to find it, as I thought, so ill 
bestowed. We were both warm, and of course both 
to blame. His resolution of leaving Churchhill is 
consistent with his general eagerness. When I 
understood his intention, however, and at the same 
time began to think that we had been perhaps 
equally mistaken in each other’s meaning, I re- 
solved to have an explanation before it was too 
late. For any member of your family I must 
always feel a degree of affection, and I own it 
would have sensibly hurt me if my acquaintance 
with Mr. De Courcy had ended so gloomily. I 
have now only to say, further, that as I am con- 
vinced of Frederica’s having a reasonable dislike 
to Sir James, I shall instantly inform him that he 
must give up all hope of her. I reproach myself 
for having even, though innocently, made her un- 
happy on that score. She shall have all the retri- 
bution in my power to make; if she value her own 
happiness as much as I do, if she judge wisely, 
and command herself as she ought, she may now 


t,ADY SUSAN. 


67 


be easy. Excuse me, my dearest sister, for thus 
trespassing on your time, but I owe it to my own 
character; and after this explanation I trust I am 
in no danger of sinking in your opinion.’’ I could 
have said, ^^Not much, indeed! ” hut I left her 
almost in silence. It was the greatest stretch of 
forbearance I could practise. I could not have 
stopped myself had I begun. Her assurance I her 
deceit! but I will not allow myself to dwell on 
them; they will strike you sufficiently. My heart 
sickens within me. As soon as I was tolerably 
composed I returned to the parlor. Sir James’s 
carriage was at the door, and he, merry as usual, 
soon afterwards took his leave. How easily does 
her ladyship encourage or dismiss a lover! In 
spite of this release, Frederica still looks unhappy : 
still fearful, perhaps, of her mother’s anger; and 
though dreading my brother’s departure, jealous, 
it may be, of his staying. I see how closely she 
observes him and Lady Susan, poor girl! I have 
now no hope for her. There is not a chance of her 
affection being returned. He thinks very differ- 
ently of her from what he used to do ; he does her 
some justice, but his reconciliation with her 
mother precludes every dearer hope. Prepare, my 
dear mother, for the worst! The probability of 
their marrying is surely heightened! He is more 
securely hers than ever. When that wretched 
event takes place, Frederica must belong wholly 
to us. I am thankful that my last letter will pre- 
cede this by so little, as every moment that you 
can be saved from feeling a joy which leads only 
to disappointment is of consequence. 

Yours ever, etc., Catherine Vernon 


63 


LADY SUSAN. 


XXV. 


Lady Sman to Mrs. Johnson, 

Churchhill. 

1 CALL on you, dear Alicia, for congratulations : 
I am my own self, gay and triumphant! When I 
wrote to you the other day I was, in truth, in high 
irritation, and with ample cause. Nay, I know 
not whether I ought to be quite tranquil now, for 
I have had more trouble in restoring peace than I 
ever intended to submit to, — a spirit, too, result- 
ing from a fancied sense of superior integrity, 
which is peculiarly insolent! I shall not easily 
forgive him, I assure you. He was actually on 
the point of leaving Churchhill! I had scarcely 
concluded my last, when Wilson brought me word 
of it. I found, therefore, that something must be 
done ; for I did not choose to leave my character at 
the mercy of a man whose passions are so violent 
and so revengeful. It would have been trifling 
with my reputation to allow of his departing with 
such an impression in my disfavor; in this light, 
condescension was necessary. I sent Wilson to 
say that I desired to speak with him before he 
went; he came immediately. The angry emotions 
which had marked every feature when we last 
parted were partially subdued. He seemed aston- 
ished at the summons, and looked as if half wish- 
ing and half fearing to be softened by what I 
might say. If my countenance expressed what I 
aimed at, it was composed and dignified, and yet 


LADY SUSAN. 


69 


with a degree of pensiveness which might convince 
him that I was not quite happy. “1 beg your 
pardon, sir, for the liberty I have taken in sending 
for you,’’ said I; ^^but as I have just learnt your 
intention of leaving this place to-day, I feel it my 
duty to entreat that you will not on my account 
shorten your visit here even an hour. I am per- 
fectly aware that after what has passed between us 
it would ill suit the feelings of either to remain 
longer in the same house: so very great, so total a 
change from the intimacy of friendship must ren- 
der any future intercourse the severest punish- 
ment} and your resolution of quitting Churchhill 
is undoubtedly in unison with our situation, and 
with those lively feelings which I know you to 
possess. But at the same time it is not for me to 
suffer such a sacrifice as it must be to leave rela- 
tions to whom you are so much attached and are 
so dear. My remaining here cannot give that 
pleasure to Mr. and Mrs. Vernon which your soci- 
ety must; and my visit has already perhaps been 
too long. My removal, therefore, which must at 
any rate take place soon, may with perfect con- 
venience be hastened} and I make it my particular 
request that I may not in any way be instrumental 
in separating a family so affectionately attached to 
each other. Where I go is of no consequence to 
any one} of very little to myself} but you are of 
importance to all your connections.” Here I con- 
cluded, and I hope you will be satisfied with my 
speech. Its effect on Eeginald justifies some por- 
tion of vanity, for it was no less favorable than in- 
stantaneous. Oh, how delightful it was to watch 


70 


LADY SUSAN. 


the variations of his countenance while I spoke, — - 
to see the struggle between returning tenderness and 
the remains of displeasure! There is something 
agreeable in feelings so easily worked on ; not that 
I envy him their possession, nor would, for the 
world, have such myself; but they are very con- 
venient when one wishes to influence the passions 
of another. And yet this Reginald, whom a very 
few words from me softened at once into the ut- 
most submission, and rendered more tractable, 
more attached, more devoted than ever, would have 
left me in the first angry swelling of his proud 
heart without deigning to seek an explanation. 
Humbled as he now is, I cannot forgive him such 
an instance of pride, and am doubtful whether I 
ought not to punish him by dismissing him at once 
after this reconciliation, or by marr3dng and teas- 
ing him forever. But these measures are each too 
violent to be adopted without some deliberation; 
at present my thoughts are fluctuating between 
various schemes. I have many things to compass ; 
I must punish Frederica, and pretty severely too, 
for her application to Reginald; I must punish 
him for receiving it so favorably, and for the rest 
of his conduct. I must torment my sister-in-law 
for the insolent triumph of her look and manner 
since Sir James has been dismissed; for in recon- 
ciling Reginald to me, I was not able to save that 
ill-fated young man; and I must make myself 
amends for the humiliation to which I have stooped 
within these few days. To effect all this I have 
various plans. I have also an idea of being soon 
in town; and whatever may be my determination 


LADY SUSAN. 


71 


as to the rest^ I shall probably put that project in 
execution; for London will be always the fairest 
field of action, however my views may be directed; 
and at any rate I shall there be rewarded by your 
society, and a little dissipation, for a ten weeks’ 
penance at Churchhill. I believe I owe it to 
my character to complete the match between my 
daughter and Sir James after having so long 
intended it. Let me know your opinion on this 
point. Flexibility of mind, a disposition easily 
biased by others, is an attribute which you know 
I am not very desirous of obtaining; nor has 
Frederica any claim to the indulgence of her no- 
tions at the expense of her mother’s inclinations. 
Her idle love for Reginald, too ! It is surely my 
duty to discourage such romantic nonsense. All 
things considered, therefore, it seems incumbent 
on me to take her to town and marry her immedi- 
ately to Sir James. When my own will is effected 
contrary to his, I shall have some credit in being 
on good terms with Reginald, which at present, 
in fact, I have not ; for though he is still in my 
power, I have given up the very article by which 
our quarrel was produced, and at best the honor of 
victory is doubtful. Send me your opinion on all 
these matters, my dear Alicia, and let me know 
whether you can get lodgings to suit me within a 
short distance of you. 

Your most attached 


S. Vernon 


72 


LADY SUSAN. 


XXVI 

Mrs. Johnson to Lady Susan. 

Edward Street. 

I AM gratified by your reference, and this is my 
advice: that you come to town yourself, without 
loss of time, but that you leave Frederica behind. 
It would surely be much more to the purpose to 
get yourself well established by marrying Mr. 
De Courcy, than to irritate him and the rest of 
his family by making her marry Sir James. You 
should think more of yourself and less of your 
daughter. She is not of a disposition to do you 
credit in the world, and seems precisely in her 
proper place at Churchhill, with the Vernons. 
But you are fitted for society, and it is shameful 
to have you exiled from it. Leave Frederica, 
therefore, to punish herself for the plague she has 
given you, by indulging that romantic tender- 
heartedness which will always insure her misery 
enough, and come to London as soon as you can. 
I have another reason for urging this: Mainwar- 
ing came to town last week, and has contrived, in 
spite of Mr. Johnson, to make opportunities of 
seeing me. He is absolutely miserable about you, 
and jealous to such a degree of De Courcy that it 
would be highly nnadvisable for them to meet at 
present. And yet, if you do not allow him to 
see you here, I cannot answer for his not commit- 
ting some great imprudence, — such as going to 
Churchhill, for instance, which would be dreadful ! 


LADY SUSAN. 


73 


Besides, if you take my advice, and resolve to 
marry De Courcy, it will be indispensably neces- 
sary to you to get Mainwaring out of the way; 
and you only can have influence enough to send 
him back to his wife. I have still another motive 
for your coming: Mr. Johnson leaves London 
next Tuesday; he is going for his health to Bath, 
where, if the waters are favorable to his consti- 
tution and my wishes, he will be laid up with the 
gout many weeks. During his absence we shall be 
able to choose our own society, and to have true 
enjoyment. I would ask you to Edward Street, 
but that once he forced from me a kind of promise 
never to invite you to my house; nothing but my 
being in the utmost distress for money should 
have extorted it from me. I can get you, how- 
ever, a nice drawing-room apartment in Upper 
Seymour Street, and we may be always together 
there or here; for I consider my promise to Mr. 
Johnson as comprehending only (at least in his 
absence) your not sleeping in the house. Poor 
Mainwaring gives me such histories of his wife’s 
jealousy. Silly woman to expect constancy from 
so charming a man! but she always was silly — 
intolerably so in marrying him at all, she the 
heiress of a large fortune and he without a shil- 
ling: one title, I know, she might have had, 
besides baronets. Her folly in forming the con- 
nection was so great that though Mr. Johnson 
was her guardian, and I do not in general share 
his feelings, I never can forgive her. 

Adieu. Yours ever. 


Alicia. 


74 


LADY SUSAN. 


XXYII. 

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy. 

CHURCHHILL. 

This letter, my dear mother, will he brought 
you by Keginald. His long visit is about to be 
concluded at last, but I fear the separation takes 
place too late to do us any good. She is going to 
London to see her particular friend, Mrs. John- 
son. It was at first her intention that Frederica 
should accompany her, for the benefit of masters, 
but we overruled her there. Frederica was wretched 
in the idea of going, and I could not bear to have 
her at the mercy of her mother; not all the mas- 
ters in London could compensate for the ruin of 
her comfort. I should have feared, too, for her 
health, and for everj’thing but her principles, — 
there I believe she is not to be injured by her 
mother, or her mother’s friends; but with those 
friends she must have mixed (a very bad set, I 
doubt not), or have been left in total solitude, 
and I can hardly tell which would have been worse 
for her. If she is with her mother, moreover, she 
must, alas! in all probability be with Reginald, 
and that would be the greatest evil of all. Here 
we shall in time be in peace; and our regular 
employments, our books and conversations, with 
exercise, the children, and every domestic pleas- 
ure in my power to procure her, will, I trust, 
gradually overcome this youthful attachment. I 
should not have a doubt of it were she slighted for 


LADY SUSAN. 


75 


any other woman in the world than her own 
mother. How long Lady Susan will be in town, 
or whether she returns here again, I know not. 
I could not he cordial in my invitation ; hut if she 
chooses to come, no want of cordiality on my part 
will keep her away. I could not help asking 
Reginald if he intended being in London this 
winter, as soon as I found her ladyship’s steps 
would he bent thither; and though he professed 
himself quite undetermined, there was something 
in his look and voice as he spoke which contra- 
dicted his words. I have done with lamenta- 
tion; I look upon the event as so far decided 
that I resign myself to it in despair. If he 
leaves you soon for London, everything will be 
concluded. 

Your affectionate, etc., 

C. Vernon. 


XXVIIL 

Mrs. Johnson to Lady Susan. 

Edward Street. 

My dearest Friend, — I write in the greatest 
distress; the most unfortunate event has just taken . 
place. Mr. Johnson has hit on the most effectual 
manner of plaguing us all. He had heard, I 
imagine, by some means or other, that you were 
soon to he in London, and immediately contrived 
to have such an attack of the gout as must at 
least delay his journey to Bath, if not wholly 
prevent it. I am persuaded the gout is brought 


76 


LADY SUSAN. 


on or kept off at pleasure ; it was the same when I 
wanted to join the Hamiltons to the Lakes; and 
three years ago, when I had a fancy for Bath, noth- 
ing could induce him to have a gouty symptom. 

I am pleased to find that my letter had so much 
effect on you, and that De Courcy is certainly 
your own. Let me hear from you as soon as you 
arrive, and in particular tell me what you mean 
to do with Mainwaring. It is impossible to say 
when I shall be able to come to you; my confine- 
ment must be great. It is such an abominable 
trick to be ill here instead of at Bath that I can 
scarcely command myself at all. At Bath his 
old aunts would have nursed him, but here it all 
falls upon me; and he bears pain with such pa- 
tience that I have not the common excuse for 
losing my temper. 

Yours ever, 


Alicia. 


XXIX. 


Lady Susan Vernon to Mrs. Johnson. 

Upper Seymour Street. 

My dear Alicia, — There needed not this 
last fit of the gout to make me detest Mr. John- 
son, but now the extent of my aversion is not to 
be estimated. To have you confined as nurse in 
his apartment! My dear Alicia, of what a mis- 
take were you guilty in marrying a man of his 
age! just old enough to be formal, ungovernable, 
and to have the gout ; too old to be agreeable, too 


LADY SUSAN. 


77 


young to die. I arrived last night about five, had 
scarcely swallowed my dinner when Mainwaring 
made his appearance. I will not dissemble what 
real pleasure his sight afforded me, nor how 
strongl}'^ I felt the contrast between his person and 
manners and those of Reginald, to the infinite 
disadvantage of the latter. For an hour or two I 
was even staggered in my resolution of marrying 
him, and though this was too idle and nonsensi- 
cal an idea to remain long on my mind, I do not 
feel very eager for the conclusion of my marriage, 
nor look forward with much impatience to the 
time when Reginald, according to our agreement, 
is to be in town. I shall probably put off his 
arrival under some pretence or other. He must 
not come till Mainwaring is gone. I am still 
doubtful at times as to marrying; if the old man 
would die I might not hesitate, but a state of 
dependence on the caprice of Sir Reginald will not 
suit the freedom of my spirit; and if I resolve to 
wait for that event, I shall have excuse enough at 
present in having been scarcely ten months a 
widow. I have not given Mainwaring any hint 
of my intention, or allowed him to consider my 
acquaintance with Reginald as more than the 
commonest flirtation, and he is tolerably appeased. 
Adieu, till we meet; I am enchanted with my 
lodgings. 

Yours ever, 


S. Vernon. 


78 


LADY SUSAN. 


XXX. 

Lady Susan Vernon to Mr. De Courcy. 

Upper Seymour Street. 

I HAVE received your letter, and though I do not 
Attempt to conceal that I am gratified by your im- 
patience for the hour of meeting, I yet feel myself 
under the necessity of delaying that hour beyond 
the time originally fixed. Do not think me un- 
kind for such an exercise of my power, nor accuse 
me of instability without first hearing my reasons. 
In the course of my journey from Churchhill I had 
ample leisure for reflection on the present state of 
our affairs, and every review has served to convince 
me that they require a delicacy and cautiousness of 
conduct to which we have hitherto been too little 
attentive. We have been hurried on by our feel- 
ings to a degree of precipitation which ill accords 
with the claims of our friends or the opinion of the 
world. We have been unguarded in forming this 
hasty engagement, but we must not complete the 
imprudence by ratifying it while there is so much 
reason to fear the connection would be opposed by 
those friends on whom you depend. It is not for 
us to blame any expectations on your father’s ^ ide 
of your marrying to advantage ; where possessions 
are so extensive as those of your family, the wish 
of increasing them, if not strictly reasonable, is too 
common to excite surprise or resentment. He 
has a right to require a woman of fortune in his 
daughter-in-law, and I am sometimes quarrelling 
with myself for suffering you to form a connection 


LADY SUSAN. 


79 


so imprudent; but the influence of reason is often 
acknowledged too late by those who feel like me. 
I have now been but a few months a widow, and, 
however little indebted to my husband’s memory 
for any happiness derived from him during a union 
of some years, I cannot forget that the indelicacy 
of so early a second marriage must subject me to 
the censure of the world, and incur, what wmuld 
be still more insupportable, the displeasure of Mr. 
Vernon. I might perhaps harden myself in time 
against the injustice of general reproach, but the 
loss of his valued esteem I am, as you well know, 
ill-fitted to endure ; and when to this may be added 
the consciousness of having injured you with your 
family, how am I to support myself? With feel- 
ings so poignant as mine, the conviction of having 
divided the son from his parents would make me, 
even with you, the most miserable of beings. It 
will surely, therefore, be advisable to delay our 
union — to delay it till appearances are more prom- 
ising — till affairs have taken a more favorable 
turn. To assist us in such a resolution I feel that 
absence will be necessary. We must not meet. 
Cruel as this sentence may appear, the necessity 
of pronouncing it, which can alone reconcile it 
to myself, will be evident to you when you have 
considered our situation in the light in which I 
have found myself imperiously obliged to place it. 
You may be — you must be — well assured that 
nothing but the strongest conviction of duty could 
induce me to wound my own feelings by urging 
a lengthened separation, and of insensibility to 
yours you will hardly suspect me. Again, there- 


80 


LADY SUSAN. 


fore, I say that we ought not, we must not, yet 
meet. By a removal for some months from each 
other we shall tranquillize the sisterly fears of 
Mrs. Vernon, who, accustomed herself to the en- 
joyment of riches, considers fortune as necessary 
everywhere, and whose sensibilities are not of a 
nature to comprehend ours. Let me hear from you 
soon — very soon. Tell me that you submit to my 
arguments, and do not reproach me for using such. 
I cannot hear reproaches: my spirits are not so 
high as to need being repressed. I must endeavor 
to seek amusement, and fortunately many of my 
friends are in town; amongst them the Mainwar- 
ings; you know how sincerely I regard both hus- 
band and wife. 

I am, very faithfully yours, 

S. Vernon. 

XXXI. 


Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson, 

Upper Seymour Street. 

My dear Friend, — That tormenting creature, 
Keginald, is here. My letter, which was intended 
to keep him longer in the country, has hastened 
him to town. Much as I wish him away, however, 
I cannot help being pleased with such a proof of 
attachment. He is devoted to me, heart and soul. 
He will carry this note himself, which is to serve 
as an introduction to you, with whom he longs to 
he acquainted. Allow him to spend the evening 
with you, that I may he in no danger of his re- 
turning here. I have told him that I am not quite 
well, and must he alone; and should he call again 


LADY SUSAN. 


81 


there might he confusion, for it is impossible to be 
sure of servants. Keep him, therefore, I entreat 
you, in Edward Street. You will not find him a 
heavy companion, and I allow you to flirt with him 
as much as you like. At the same time do not 
forget my real interest; say all that you can to 
convince him that I shall be quite wretched if he 
remains here ; you know my reasons, — propriety, 
and so forth. I would urge them more myself, but 
that I am impatient to be rid of him, as Mainwar- 
ing comes within half an hour. Adieu ! 

S. Vernon. 


XXXIL 

Mrs. Johnson to Lady Susan. 

Edward Street. 

My dear Creature, — I am in agonies, and 
know not what to do. Mr. De Courcy arrived just 
when he should not. Mrs. Mainwaring had that in- 
stant entered the house, and forced herself into her 
guardian’s presence, though I did not know a syl- 
lable of it till afterwards, for I was out when both 
she and Keginald came, or I should have sent him 
away at all events; but she was shut up with Mr. 
Johnson, while he waited in the drawing-room for 
me. She arrived yesterday in pursuit of her 
husband, hut perhaps you know this already from 
himself. She came to this house to entreat my 
husband’s interference, and before I could be aware 
of it, everything that you could wish to be con- 
cealed was known to him, and unluckily she had 
wormed out of Mainwaring’s servant that he had 
6 


82 


LADY SUSAN. 


visited you every day since your being in town, 
and had just watched him to your door herself! 
What could I do? Facts are such horrid things! 
All is by this time known to De Courcy, who is 
now alone with Mr. Johnson. Do not accuse me; 
indeed, it was impossible to prevent it. Mr. 
Johnson has for some time suspected De Courcy of 
intending to marry you, and would speak with 
him alone as soon as he knew him to be in the 
house. That detestable Mrs. Mainwaring, who, 
for your comfort, has fretted herself thinner and 
uglier than ever, is still here, and they have been 
all closeted together. What can be done? At 
any rate, I hope he will plague his wife more than 
ever. With anxious wishes. 

Yours faithfully, Alicia. 

XXXIII. 

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson. 

Upper Seymour Street. 

This eclair cissement is rather provoking. How 
unlucky that you should have been from home ! I 
thought myself sure of you at seven ! I am undis- 
mayed, however. Do not torment yourself with 
fears on my account; depend on it, I can make my 
story good with Reginald. Mainwaring is just 
gone; he brought me the news of his wife’s arrival. 
Silly woman, what does she expect by such ma- 
noeuvres? Yet I wish she had stayed quietly at 
Langford. Reginald will be a little enraged at 
first, but by to-morrow’s dinner everything will 
be well again. 


Adieu ! 


S. V. 


LADY SUSAN. 


83 


XXXIV. 

Mr. De Courcy to Lady Susan. 

Hotel. 

I WRITE only to bid you farewell, the spell is 
removed; I see you as you are. Since we parted 
yesterday, I have received from indisputable 
authority such a history of you as must bring the 
most mortifying conviction of the imposition I 
have been under, and the absolute necessity of an 
immediate and eternal separation from you. You 
cannot doubt to what I allude. Langford! Lang- 
ford! that word will be sufficient. I received my 
information in Mr. Johnson’s house, from Mrs. 
Mainwaring herself. You know how I have 
loved you; you can intimately judge of my present 
feelings, but I am not so weak as to find indulgence 
in describing them to a woman who will glory in 
having excited their anguish, but whose affection 
they have never been able to gain. 

K. DE Courcy. 

XXXV. 

Lady Susan to Mr. De Courcy. 

Upper Seymour Street. 

I WILL not attempt to describe my astonishment 
in reading the note this moment received from you. 
I am bewildered in my endeavors to form some ra- 
tional conjecture of what Mrs. Mainwaring can 
have told you to occasion so extraordinary a change 
in your sentiments. Have I not explained every- 


84 


LADY SUSAN. 


thing to you with respect to myself which could 
hear a doubtful meaning, and which the ill-nature 
of the world had interpreted to my discredit? 
What can you now have heard to stagger your 
esteem for me? Have I ever had a concealment 
from you? Reginald, you agitate me beyond ex- 
pression. I cannot suppose that the old story of 
Mrs. Mainwaring’s jealousy can be revived again, 
or at least be listened to again. Come to me 
immediately, and explain what is at present ab- 
solutely incomprehensible. Believe me the single 
word of Langford is not of such potent intelligence 
as to supersede the necessity of more. If we are 
to part, it will at least be handsome to take your 
personal leave — but I have little heart to jest ; in 
truth, I am serious enough; for to be sunk, though 
but for an hour, in your esteem is a humiliation 
to which I know not how to submit. I shall count 
every minute till your arrival. 

S. V. 

XXXVI. 

Mr. De Courcy to Lady Stcsan. 

Hotel. 

Why would you write to me? Why do you 
require particulars? But since it must be so, I am 
obliged to declare that all the accounts of your mis- 
conduct during the life and since the death of Mr. 
Vernon, which had reached me, in common with the 
world in general, and gained my entire belief be- 
fore I saw you, but which you, by the exertion of 
your perverted abilities, had made me resolved to 
disallow, have been unanswerably proved to me; 


LADY SUSAN, 


85 


nay more, I am assured that a connection of which 1 
had never before entertained a thought, has for 
some time existed, and still continues to exist, 
between you and the man whose family you robbed 
of its peace in return for the hospitality with which 
you were received into itj that you have corre- 
sponded with him ever since your leaving Langford; 
not with his wife, but with him, and that he now 
visits you every day. Can you, dare you deny it? 
and all this at the time when I was an encouraged, 
an accepted lover ! From what have I not escaped ! 
I have only to be grateful. Far from me be all 
complaint, every sigh of regret. My own folly 
had endangered me, my preservation I owe to the 
kindness, the integrity of another; but the unfor- 
tunate Mrs. Mainwaring, whose agonies while she 
related the past seemed to threaten her reason, — 
how is she to be consoled ! After such a discovery as 
this, you will scarcely affect further wonder at my 
meaning in bidding you adieu. My understand- 
ing is at length restored, and teaches no less to 
abhor the artifices which had subdued me than to 
despise myself for the weakness on which their 
strength was founded. 

E. DE COURCY. 


XXXVII. 

Lady Susan to Mr. De Courcy. 

Upper Seymour Street. 

I AM satisfied, and will trouble you no more 
when these few lines are dismissed. The engage- 
ment which you were eager to form a fortnight ago 


86 


LADY SUSAN. 


is no longer compatible with your views, and I re- 
joice to find that the prudent advice of your parents 
has not been given in vain. Your restoration to 
peace will, I doubt not, speedily follow this act of 
filial obedience, and I flatter myself with the hope 
of surviving my share in this disappointment. 

S. V. 

XXXVIII. 

Mrs. Johnson to Lady Susan Vernon. 

Edward Street. 

I AM grieved, though I cannot be astonished, at 
your rupture with Mr. De Courcy; he has just in- 
formed Mr. Johnson of it by letter. He leaves 
London, he says, to-day. Be assured that I par- 
take in all your feelings, and do not he angry if I 
say that our intercourse, even by letter, must soon 
he given up. It makes me miserable; but Mr. John- 
son vows that if I persist in the connection, he 
will settle in the country for the rest of his life, 
and you know it is impossible to submit to such 
an extremity while any other alternative remains. 
You have heard of course that the Mainwarings 
are to part, and I am afraid Mrs. M. will come 
home to us again; but she is still so fond of her 
husband, and frets so much about him, that per- 
haps she may not live long. Miss Mainwaring is 
just come to town to be with her aunt, and they 
say that she declares she will have Sir James 
Martin before she leaves London again. If I were 
you, I would certainly get him myself. I had 
almost forgot to give you my opinion of Mr. De 


LADY SUSAN. 


87 


Courcy: I am really delighted with him; he is full 
as handsome, I think, as Mainwaring, and with 
such an open, good-humored countenance that one 
cannot help loving him at first sight. Mr. John- 
son and he are the greatest friends in the world. 
Adieu, my dearest Susan, I wish matters did not 
go so perversely. That unlucky visit to Langford! 
but T dare say you did all for the best, and there 
is no defying destiny. 

Your sincerely attached, Alicia. 

XXXIX. 

Lady Susan to Mrs. Johnson. 

Upper Seymour Street. 

My dear Alicia, — I yield to the necessity 
which parts us. Under circumstances you could 
not act otherwise. Our friendship cannot be im- 
paired by it, and in happier times, when your 
situation is as independent as mine, it will unite 
us again in the same intimacy as ever. For this 
I shall impatiently wait, and meanwhile can safely 
assure you that I never was more at ease, or better 
satisfied with myself and everything about me 
than at the present hour. Your husband I abhor, 
Keginald I despise, and I am secure of never see- 
ing either again. Have I not reason to rejoice? 
Mainwaring is more devoted to me than ever; and 
were we at liberty, I doubt if I could resist even 
matrimony offered by him. This event, if his 
wife live with you, it may be in your power to 
hasten. The violence of her feelings, which must 


88 


LADY SUSAN. 


wear her out, may be easily kept in irritation. I 
rely on your friendship for this. I am now satis- 
fied that I never could have brought myself to 
marry Reginald, and am equally determined that 
Frederica never shall. To-morrow I shall fetch 
her from Churchhill, and let Maria Mainwaring 
tremble for the consequence. Frederica shall be 
Sir James’s wife before she quits my house, and 
she may whimper, and the Vernons may storm, I 
regard them not. I am tired of submitting my 
will to the caprices of others ; of resigning my own 
judgment in deference to those to whom I owe no 
duty, and for whom I feel no respect ; I have given 
up too much, have been too easily worked on, hut 
Frederica shall now feel the difference. Adieu, 
dearest of friends; may the next gouty attack be 
more favorable ! and may you always regard me as 
unalterably yours, 

S. Vernon. 


XL. 

Lady De Courcy to Mrs. Vernon. 

My dear Catherine, — I have charming news 
for you, and if I had not sent off my letter this 
morning you might have been spared the vexation 
of knowing of Reginald’s being gone to London, 
for he is returned. Reginald is returned, not to 
ask our consent to his marrying Lady Susan, but 
to tell us they are parted forever. He has been 
only an hour in the house, and I have not been 
able to learn particulars, for he is so very low that 
I have not the heart to ask questions, but I hope 


LADY SUSAN. 


89 


we shall soon know all. This is the most joyful 
hour he has ever given us since the day of his 
birth. Nothing is wanting but to have you here, 
and it is our particular wish and entreaty that you 
would come to us as soon as you can. You have 
owed us a visit many long weeks ; I hope nothing 
will make it inconvenient to Mr. Vernon; and 
pray bring all my grandchildren; and your dear 
niece is included, of course ; I long to see her. It 
has been a sad, heavy winter hitherto, without 
Reginald, and seeing nobody from Churchhill. I 
never found the season so dreary before ; but this 
happy meeting will make us young again. Fred- 
erica runs much in my thoughts, and when Regi- 
nald has recovered his usual good spirits (as I 
trust he soon will), we will try to rob him of his 
heart once more, and I am full of hopes of seeing 
their hands joined at no great distance. 

Your affectionate mother, 

C. DE CoURCY. 


XLI. 

Mrs. Vernon to Lady De Courcy. 

Chukchhill. 

My dear Mother, — Your letter has surprised 
me beyond measure! Can it be true that' they are 
really separated — and forever? I should be over- 
joyed if I dared depend on it, but after all that I 
have seen how can one be secure? And Reginald 
really with you! My surprise is the greater be- 
cause on Wednesday, the very day of his coming 
to Parklands, we had a most unexpected and un- 


90 


LADY SUSAN. 


welcome visit from Lady Susan, looking all cheer- 
fulness and good-humor, and seeming more as if 
she were to marry him when she got to London 
than as if parted from him forever. She stayed 
nearly two hours, was as affectionate and agreeable 
as ever, and not a syllable, not a hint was dropped, 
of any disagreement or coolness between them. I 
asked her whether she had seen my brother since 
his arrival in town; not, as you may suppose, with 
any doubt of the fact, but merely to see how she 
looked. She immediately answered, without any 
embarrassment, that he had been kind enough to 
call on her on Monday; but she believed he bad 
already returned home, which I was very far from 
crediting. Your kind invitation is accepted by 
us with pleasure, and on Thursday next we and our 
little ones will be with you. Pray heaven, Regi- 
nald may not be in town again by that time ! I 
wish we could bring dear Frederica too, but I am 
sorry to say that her mother’s errand hither was to 
fetch her away; and, miserable as it made the poor 
girl, it was impossible to detain her. I was 
thoroughly unwilling to let her go, and so was her 
uncle; and all that could be urged we did urge; 
but Lady Susan declared that as she was now 
about to fix herself in London for several months, 
she could not be easy if her daughter were not with 
her for masters, etc. Her manner, to be sure, was 
very kind and proper, and Mr. Vernon believes 
that Frederica will now be treated with affection. 
I wish I could think so too. The poor girl’s 
heart was almost broke at taking leave of us. I 
charged her to write to me very often, and to re« 


LADY SUSAN. 


91 


member that if she were in any distress we should 
be always her friends. I took care to see her 
alone, that I might say all this, and I hope made 
her a little more comfortable; bnt I shall not be 
easy till I can go to town and judge of her situa- 
tion myself. I wish there were a better prospect 
than now appears of the match which the conclu- 
sion of your letter declares your expectations of. 
At present it is not very likely. 

Yours ever, etc., 

C. Vernon. 


CONCLUSION. 

This correspondence, by a meeting between some 
of the parties, and a separation between the others, 
could not, to the great detriment of the Post-Office 
revenue, be continued any longer. Very little as- 
sistance to the State could be derived from the 
epistolary intercourse of Mrs. Vernon and her 
niece; for the former soon perceived, by the style 
of Frederica’s letters, that they were written under 
her mother’s inspection! and therefore, deferring 
all particular inquiry till she could make it per- 
sonally in London, ceased writing minutely or 
often. Having learnt enough in the mean while, 
from her open-hearted brother, of what had passed 
between him and Lady Susan to sink the latter 
lower than ever in her opinion, she was proportion- 
ably more anxious to get Frederica removed from 
such a mother, and placed under her own care; 
and, though with little hope of success, was re' 


92 


LADY SUSAN. 


solved to leave nothing unattempted that might 
offer a chance of obtaining her sister-in-law’s con- 
sent to it. Her anxiety on the subject made her 
press for an early visit to London; and Mr. Ver- 
non, who, as it must already have appeared, lived 
only to do whatever he was desired, soon found 
some accommodating business to call him thither. 
With a heart full of the matter, Mrs. Vernon 
waited on Lady Susan shortly after her arrival in 
town, and was met with such an easy and cheerful 
affection, as made her almost turn from her with 
horror. NTo remembrance of Reginald, no con- 
sciousness of guilt, gave one look of embarrass- 
ment; she was in excellent spirits, and seemed 
eager to show at once by every possible attention 
to her brother and sister her sense of their kind- 
ness, and her pleasure in their society. Prederica 
was no more altered than Lady Susan; the same 
restrained manners, the same timid look in the 
presence of her mother as heretofore, assured her 
aunt of her situation being uncomfortable, and con- 
firmed her in the plan of altering it. No unkind- 
ness, however, on the part of Lady Susan appeared. 
Persecution on the subject of Sir James was en- 
tirely at an end; his name merely mentioned to 
say that he was not in London; and indeed, in all 
her conversation she was solicitous only for the 
welfare and improvement of her daughter, acknowl- 
edging, in terms of grateful delight, that Frederica 
was now growing every day more and more what a 
parent could desire. Mrs. Vernon, surprised and 
incredulous, knew not what to suspect, and, with- 
out any change in her own views, only feared 


LADY SUSAN. 


93 


greater difficulty in accomplishing them. The first 
hope of anything better was derived from Lady 
Susan’s asking her whether she thought Frederica 
looked quite as well as she had done at Churchhill, 
as she must confess herself to have sometimes an 
anxious doubt of London’s perfectly agreeing with 
her. Mrs. Vernon, encouraging the doubt, directly 
proposed her niece’s returning with them into the 
country. Lady Susan was unable to express her 
sense of such kindness, yet knew not, from a va- 
riety of reasons, how to part with her daughter ; and 
as, though her own plans were not yet wholly fixed, 
she trusted it would erelong be in her power to 
take Frederica into the country herself, concluded 
by declining entirely to profit by such unexampled 
attention. Mrs. Vernon persevered, however, in 
the offer of it; and though Lady Susan continued 
to resist, her resistance in the course of a few days 
seemed somewhat less formidable. The lucky 
alarm of an influenza decided what might not have 
been decided quite so soon. Lady Susan’s mater- 
nal fears were then too much awakened for her to 
think of anything but Frederica’s removal from the 
risk of infection; above all disorders in the world 
she most dreaded the influenza for her daughter’s 
constitution ! 

Frederica returned to Churchhill with her uncle 
and aunt; and three weeks afterwards. Lady Susan 
announced her being married to Sir James Martin. 
Mrs. Vernon was then convinced of what she had 
only suspected before, that she might have spared 
herself all the trouble of urging a removal which 
Lady Susan had doubtless resolved on from the 


94 


LADY SUSAN. 


first. Frederica’s visit was nominally for six 
weeks ; but her mother, though inviting her to re- 
turn in one or two affectionate letters, was very 
ready to oblige the whole party by consenting to a 
prolongation of her stay, and in the course of two 
months ceased to write of her absence, and in the 
course of two more to write to her at all. Fred- 
erica was therefore fixed in the family of her uncle 
and aunt till such time as Reginald de Courcy 
could be talked, flattered, and finessed into an af- 
fection for her which, allowing leisure for the con- 
quest of his attachment to her mother, for his 
abjuring all future attachments, and detesting the 
sex, might be reasonably looked for in the course 
of a twelvemonth. Three months might have done 
it in general, but Reginald’s feelings were no less 
lasting than lively. Whether Lady Susan was or 
was not happy in her second choice, I do not see 
how it can ever be ascertained; for who would take 
her assurance of it on either side of the question? 
The world must judge from probabilities; she had 
nothing against her but her husband and her con- 
science. Sir James may seem to have drawn a 
harder lot than mere folly merited; I leave him, 
therefore, to all the pity that anybody can give 
him. For myself, I confess that I can pity only 
Miss Mainwaring, who, coming to town, and put- 
ting herself to an expense in clothes which im- 
poverished her for two years, on purpose to secure 
him, was defrauded of her due by a woman ten 
years older than herself. 


THE WATSONS. 


# 


PREFACE. 


This work was left by its author a fragment with- 
out a name, in so elementary a state as not even 
to be divided into chapters; and some obscurities 
and inaccuracies of expression may be observed in 
it which the author would probably have corrected. 
The original manuscript is the property of my 
sister, Miss Austen, by whose permission it is 
now published. I have called it ^^The Watsons,^’ 
for the sake of having a title by which to desig- 
nate it. Two questions may be asked concerning 
it, — When was it written? and. Why was it 
never finished? I was unable to answer the first 
question, so long as I had only the internal evi- 
dence of the style to guide me. I felt satisfied, 
indeed, that it did not belong to that early class 
of her writings which are mentioned at page 218 of 
the Memoir, but rather bore marks of her more 
mature style, though it had never been subjected 
to the filing and polishing process by which she 
was accustomed to impart a high finish to her 
published works. At last, on a close inspection 
of the original manuscript, the water-marks of 
7 


98 


PREFACE. 


1803 and 1804 were found in tlie paper on which 
it was written. It is therefore probable that it 
was composed at Bath, before she ceased to reside 
there in 1805. This would place the date a few 
years later than the composition, hut earlier than 
the publication, of Sense and Sensibility^’ and 

Pride and Prejudice.” 

To the second question. Why was it never fin- 
ished? I can give no satisfactory answer. I 
think it will he generally admitted that there is 
much in it which promised well: that some of 
the characters are drawn with her wonted vigor, 
and some with a delicate discrimination peculiarly 
her own; and that it is rich in her especial power 
of telling the story, and bringing out the charac- 
ters by conversation rather than by description. 
It could not have been broken up for the purpose 
of using the materials in another fabric ; for, with 
the exception of Mrs. Kobert Watson, in whom a 
resemblance to the future Mrs. Elton is very 
discernible, it would not be easy to trace much 
resemblance between this and any of her subse- 
quent works. She must have felt some regret at 
leaving Tom Musgrave’s character incomplete; yet 
he never appears elsewhere. My own idea is, but it 
is only a guess, that the author became aware of 
the evil of having placed her heroine too low, in 
such a position of poverty and obscurity as, though 
not necessarily connected with vulgarity, has a 


PREFACE. 


99 


sad tendency to degenerate into it; .and therefore, 
like a singer who has begun on too low a note, 
she discontinued the strain. It was an error of 
which she was likely to become more sensible, as 
she grew older, and saw more of society; certainly 
she never repeated it by placing the heroine of any 
subsequent work under circumstances likely to be 
unfavorable to the refinement of a lady. 




THE WATSONS. 


first winter assembly in the town of 
in Surrey was to be held on Tues- 
ly, October 13th, and it was gener- 
ly expected to be a very good one. 
A long list of county families was confidently run 
over as sure of attending, and sanguine hopes were 
entertained that the Osbornes themselves would 
be there. The Edwards’ invitation to the Wat- 
sons followed, of course. The Edwards were peo- 
ple of fortune, who lived in the town and kept 
their coach. The Watsons inhabited a village 
about three miles distant, were poor, and had no 
close carriage; and ever since there had been balls 
in the place, the former were accustomed to invite 
the latter to dress, dine, and sleep at their house on 
every monthly return throughout the winter. On 
the present occasion, as only two of Mr. Watson’s 
children were at home, and one was always neces- 
sary as companion to himself, for he was sickly 
and had lost his wife, one only could profit by the 
kindness of their friends. Miss Emma Watson, 



102 


THE WATSONS. 


who was very recently returned to her family 
from the care of an aunt who had brought her up, 
was to make her first public appearance in the 
neighborhood, and her eldest sister, whose de- 
light in a ball was not lessened by a ten years’ 
enjoyment, had some merit in cheerfully under- 
taking to drive her and all her finery in the old 
chair to D. on the important morning. 

As they splashed along the dirty lane. Miss 
Watson thus instructed and cautioned her inex- 
perienced sister: — 

dare say it will be a very good ball, and 
among so many ofiicers you will hardly want 
partners. You will find Mrs. Edwards’ maid very 
willing to help you, and I would advise you to ask 
Mary Edwards’ opinion if you are at all at a loss, 
for she has a very good taste. If Mr. Edwards 
does not lose his money at cards, you will stay as 
late as you can wish for; if he does, he will hurry 
you home perhaps — but you are sure of some 
comfortable soup. I hope you will be in good 
looks. I should not be surprised if you were to 
be thought one of the prettiest girls in the room; 
there is a great deal in novelty. Perhaps Tom 
Musgrave may take notice of you; but I would 
advise you by all means not to give him any en- 
couragement. He generally pays attention to 
every new girl ; but he is a great fiirt, and never 
means anything serious.” 

think I have heard you speak of him be- 
fore,” said Emma; ^^who is he?” 

^‘A young man of very good fortune, quite 
independent, and remarkably agreeable, — a univer- 


THE WATSONS. 


103 


sal favorite wherever he goes. Most of the girls 
hereabout are in love with him, or have been. I 
believe 1 am the only one among them that have 
escaped with a whole heart; and yet I was the 
first he paid attention to when he came into this 
country six years ago; and very great attention 
did he pay me. Some people say that he has 
never seemed to like any girl so well since, though 
he is always behaving in a particular way to one 
or another.’’ 

‘ ‘ And how came your heart to be the only cold 
one? ” said Emma, smiling. 

There was a reason for that,” replied Miss 
Watson, changing color, — ^‘1 have not been very 
well used among them, Emma. I hope you will 
have better luck.” 

“Dear sister, I beg your pardon if I have 
unthinkingly given you pain.” 

“When first we knew Tom Musgrave,” con- 
tinued Miss Watson, without seeming to hear her, 

• ‘ I was very much attached to a young man of the 
name of Purvis, a particular friend of Kobert’s, 
who used to be with us a great deal. Everybody 
thought it would have been a match.” 

A sigh accompanied these words, which Emma 
respected in silence; but her sister after a short 
jjause went on. 

“ You will naturally ask why it did not take 
place, and why he is married to another woman, 
w^hile I am still single. But you must ask him, 
not me, — you must ask Penelope. Yes, Emma, 
Penelope was at the bottom of it all. She thinks 
everything fair for a husband. I trusted her; she 


104 


THE ^yATSONS. 


set him against me, with a view of gaining him 
herself, and it ended in his discontinuing his 
visits, and soon after marrying somebody else. 
Penelope makes light of her conduct, but I think 
such treachery very bad. It has been the ruin of 
my happiness I shall never love any man as I 
loved Purvis. I do not think Tom Musgrave 
should be named with him in the same day.^^ 
You quite shock me by what you say of Pene- 
lope,^’ said Emma. “Could a sister do such a 
thing? Kivalry, treachery between sisters! I shall 
be afraid of being acquainted with her. But I hope 
it was not so; appearances were against her.” 

“You do not know Penelope. There is noth- 
ing she would not do to get married. She would 
as good as tell you so herself. Do not trust her 
with any secrets of your own, take warning by me, 
do not trust her; she has her good qualities, but 
she has no faith, no honor, no scruples, if she can 
promote her own advantage. I wish with all my 
heart she was well married. I declare I had 
rather have her well married than myself.” 

“ Than yourself! yes, I can suppose so. A heart 
wounded like yours can have little inclination for 
matrimony. ” 

“Not much indeed — but you know we must 
marry. I could do very well single for my own 
part; a little company, and a pleasant ball now and 
then, would be enough for me, if one could be 
young forever; but my father cannot provide for 
us, and it is verj’^ bad to grow old and be poor and 
laughed at. I have lost Purvis, it is true; but 
very few people marry their first loves. I should 


THE WATSONS. 105 

not refuse a man because he was not Purvis. Not 
that I can ever quite forgive Penelope.’’ 

Emma shook her head in acquiescence. 

Penelope, however, has had her troubles,” 
continued Miss Watson. <^She was sadly disap- 
pointed in Tom Musgrave, who afterwards trans- 
ferred his attentions from me to her, and whom 
she was very fond of; but he never means anything 
serious, and when he had trifled with her long 
enough, he began to slight her for Margaret, and 
poor Penelope was very wretched. And since 
then she has been trying to make some match at 
Chichester, — she won’t tell us with whom; but I 
believe it is a rich old Dr. Harding, uncle to the 
friend she goes to see; and she has taken a vast 
deal of trouble about him, and given up a great 
deal of time to no purpose as yet. When she went 
away the other day, she said it should be the last 
time. I suppose you did not know what her par- 
ticular business was at Chichester, nor guess at 
the object which could take her away from Stanton 
just as you were coming home after so many years’ 
absence.” 

‘^No indeed, I had not the smallest suspicion of 
it. I considered her engagement to Mrs. Shaw 
just at that time as very unfortunate for me. I 
had hoped to find all my sisters at home, to be 
able to make an immediate friend of each.” 

I suspect the Doctor to have had an attack of 
the asthma, and that she was hurried away on that 
account. The Shaws are quite on her side, — at 
least, 1 believe so ; but she tells me nothing. She 
professes to keep her own counsel; she says, and 


106 


THE WATSONS. 


truly enougli, that ‘Too many cooks spoil the 
broth.* ** 

“I am sorry for her anxieties,** said Emma; 
“ hut I do not like her plans or her opinions. I 
shall he afraid of her. She must have too mascu- 
line and bold a temper. To be so bent on marriage, 
to pursue a man merely for the sake of situation, 
is a sort of thing that shocks me ; I cannot under- 
stand it. Poverty is a great evil ; but to a woman 
of education and feeling it ought not, it cannot be 
the greatest. I would rather be teacher at a school 
(and I can think of nothing worse) than marry a 
man I did not like.** 

“ I would rather do anything than be teacher at 
a school,^* said her sister. “ I have been at school, 
Emma, and know what a life they lead; you never 
have. I should not like marrying a disagreeable 
man any more than yourself; but I do not think 
there are many very disagreeable men; I think I 
could like any good-humored man with a comfort- 
able income. I suppose my aunt brought you up 
to be rather refined.** 

“ Indeed I do not know. My conduct must tell 
you how I have been brought up. I am no judge 
of it myself. I cannot compare my aunt*s method 
with any other person* s, because I know no other.’* 

“ But I can see in a great many things that you 
are very refined. I have observed it ever since 
you came home, and I am afraid it will not be for 
your happiness. Penelope will laugh at you very 
much.** 

“ That will not be for my happiness, I am sure. 
If my opinions are wrong, I must correct them; if 


THE WATSONS. 


107 


they are above my situation, I must endeavor to 
conceal them ; but I doubt whether ridicule — Has 
Penelope much wit? 

^^Yes; she has great spirits, and never cares 
what she says.’’ 

Margaret is more gentle, I imagine?” 

‘‘Yes; especially in company. She is all gentle- 
ness and mildness when anybody is by; but she 
is a little fretful and perverse among ourselves. 
Poor creature! She is possessed with the notion 
of Tom Musgrave’s being more seriously in love 
with her than he ever was with anybody else, and 
is always expecting him to come to the point. 
This is the second time within this twelvemonth 
that she has gone to spend a month with Robert 
and J ane on purpose to egg him on by her absence ; 
but I am sure she is mistaken, and that he will no 
more follow her to Croydon now than he did last 
March. He will never marry unless he can marry 
somebody very great, — Miss Osborne, perhaps, or 
somebody in that style.” 

“Your account of this Tom Musgrave, Eliza- 
beth, gives me very little inclination for his 
acquaintance.” 

“You are afraid of him; I do not wonder at 
you.” 

“Ho, indeed; I dislike and despise him.” 

“Dislike and despise Tom Musgrave! Ho, that 
you never can. I defy you not to be delighted 
with him if he takes notice of you. I hope he will 
dance with you; and I dare say he will, unless the 
Osbornes come with a large party, and then he will 
not speak to anybody else.” 


108 


THE WATSONS. 


seems to have most engaging manners! 
said Emma. Well, we shall see how irresistible 
Mr. Tom Musgrave and I find each other. I sup- 
pose I shall know him as soon as I enter the ball- 
room ; he must carry some of his charms in his face. ” 

‘‘You will not find him in the ball-room, I can 
tell you; you will go early, that Mrs. Edwards 
may get a good place by the fire, and he never 
comes till late ; if the Osbornes are coming, he will 
wait in the passage and come in with them. I 
should like to look in upon you, Emma. If it was 
but a good day with my father, I would wrap my- 
self up, and James should drive me over as soon as 
I had made tea for him ; and I should be with you 
by the time the dancing began. 

“What! Would you come late at night in this 
chair? ” 

“To be sure I would. There, I said you were 
very refined, and that ’s an instance of it.’’ 

Emma for a moment made no answer. At last 
she said, — 

“ I wish, Elizabeth, you had not made a point 
of my going to this ball; I wish you were going 
instead of me. Your pleasure would be greater 
than mine. I am a stranger here, and know no- 
body but the Edwards; my enjoyment, therefore, 
must be very doubtful. Yours, among all your 
acquaintance, would be certain. It is not too late 
to change. Very little apology could be requisite 
to the Edwards, who must be more glad of your 
company than of mine, and I should most readily 
return to my father; and should not be at all 
afraid to drive this quiet old creature home. Your 


THE WATSONS. 109 

clothes I would undertake to find mpans of sending 
to you.’’ 

^^My dearest Emma,” cried Elizabeth, warmly, 
do you think I would do such a thing? N’ot 
for the universe! But I shall never forget your 
good-nature in proposing it. You must have a 
sweet temper indeed! I never met with anything 
like it! And would you really give up the ball 
that I might be able to go to it? Believe me, 
Emma, I am not so selfish as that comes to. 2^'o; 
though I am nine years older than you are, I would 
not be the means of keeping you from being seen. 
You are very pretty, and it would be very hard that 
you should not have as fair a chance as we have 
all had to make your fortune. Xo, Emma, whoever 
stays at home this winter, it sha’n’t be you. I 
am sure I should never have forgiven the person 
who kept me from a ball at nineteen.” 

Emma expressed her gratitude, and for a few 
minutes they jogged on in silence. Elizabeth first 
spoke : — 

You will take notice who Mary Edwards dances 
with? ” 

will remember her partners, if I can; but 
you know they will be all strangers to me.” 

Only observe whether she dances with Captain 
Hunter more than once, — I have my fears in that 
quarter. Xot that her father or mother like offi- 
cers; but if she does, you know, it is all over with 
poor Sam. And I have promised to write him 
word who she dances with.” 

Is Sam attached to Miss Edwards? ” 

Did not you know that? ” 


110 


THE WATSONS. 


How should I know it? How should I know 
in Shropshire what is passing of that nature in 
Surrey? It is not likely that circumstances of 
such delicacy should have made any part of the 
scanty communication which passed between you 
and me for the last fourteen years.’’ 

wonder I never mentioned it when I wrote. 
Since you have been at home, I have been so busy 
with my poor father and our great wash that I 
have had no leisure to tell you anything; but, in- 
deed, I concluded you knew it all. He has been 
very much in love with her these two years, and it 
is a great disappointment to him that he cannot al- 
wa^'s get away to our balls ; but Mr. Curtis won’t 
often spare him, and just now it is a sickly time at 
Guildford.” 

Do you suppose Miss Edwards inclined to like 
him? ” 

I am afraid not : you know she is an only child, 
and will have at least ten thousand pounds. 

‘^But still she may like our brother.” 

^‘Oh, no! The Edwards look much higher. 
Her father and mother would never consent to it. 
Sam is only a surgeon, you know. Sometimes I 
think she does like him. But Mary Edwards is 
rather prim and reserved; I do not alwaj^s know 
what she would be at.” 

Unless Sam feels on sure grounds with the 
lady herself, it seems a pity to me that he should 
be encouraged to think of her at all.” 

A young man must think of somebody,” said 
Elizabeth, and why should not he be as lucky as 
Robert, who has got a good wife and six thousand 
pounds? ” 


THE WATSONS. 


Ill 


must not all expect to be individually 
lucky/^ replied Emma. * The luck of one membei 
of a family is luck to all.’’ 

‘‘Mine is all to come, I am sure, ” said Elizabetln 
giving another sigh to the remembrance of Purvis. 
“ I have been unlucky enough; and I cannot say 
much for you, as my aunt married again so fool- 
ishly. Well, you will have a good ball, I dare- 
say. The next turning will bring us to the 
turnpike; you may see the church-tower over the 
hedge, and the White Hart is close by it. I shall 
long to know what you think of Tom Musgrave.” 

Such were the last audible sounds of Miss 
Watson’s voice, before they passed through the 
turnpike-gate, and entered on the pitching of the 
town, the jumbling and noise of which made fur- 
ther conversation most thoroughly undesirable. 
The old mare trotted heavily on, wanting no direc- 
tion of the reins to take the right turning, and 
making only one blunder, in proposing to stop at 
the milliner’s before she drew up towards Mr. 
Edwards’ door. Mr. Edwards lived in the best 
house in the street, and the best in the place, if Mr. 
Tomlinson, the banker, might be indulged in calling 
his newly erected house at the end of the town, 
with a shrubbery and sweep, in the country. 

Mr. Edwards’ house was higher than most of its 
neighbors, with four windows on each side the 
door; the windows guarded by posts and chains, 
and the door approached by a flight of stone 
steps. 

“Here we are,” said Elizabeth, as the carriage 
ceased moving, “safely arrived, and by the market 


112 


THE WATSONS. 


clock we Lave been only five-and-tbirty minutes 
coming; wbicli I think is doing pretty well, 
though it would be nothing for Penelope. Is not 
it a nice town? The Edwards have a noble house, 
you see, and they live quite in style. The door 
will be opened b}^ a man in livery, with a 
powdered head, I can tell you.” 

Emma had seen the Edwards only one morning 
at Stanton ; they were therefore all but strangers to 
her; and though her spirits were by no means in- 
sensible to the expected joys of the evening, she 
felt a little uncomfortable in the thought of all 
that was to precede them. Her conversation with 
Elizabeth, too, giving her some very unpleasant 
feelings with respect to her own family, had made 
her more open to disagreeable impressions from 
any other cause, and increased her sense of the 
awkwardness of rushing into intimacy on so slight 
an acquaintance. 

There was nothing in the manner of Mrs. and 
Miss Edwards to give immediate change to these 
ideas. The mother, though a very friendly wo- 
man, had a reserved air, and a great deal of formal 
civility; and the daughter, a genteel-looking girl 
of twenty-two, with her hair in papers, seemed very 
naturally to have caught something of the style 
of her mother, who had brought her up. Emma 
was soon left to know what they could be, by 
Elizabeth’s being obliged to hurry away; and some 
very languid remarks on the probable brilliancy of 
the ball were all that broke, at intervals, a silence 
of half an hour, before they were joined by the 
master of the house. Mr. Edwards had a much 


THE WATSONS. 


113 


easier and more communicative air tLan the ladies 
of the family; he was fresh from the street, and he 
came ready to tell whatever might interest. After 
a cordial reception of Emma, he turned to his 
daughter with, — 

“Well, Mary, I bring you good news: the 
Osbornes will certainly be at the ball to-nigbt. 
Horses for two carriages are ordered from the 
White Hart to be at Osborne Castle by nine.’’ 

“I am glad of it,” observed Mrs. Edwards, “be- 
cause their coming gives a credit to our assem- 
bly. The Osbornes being known to have been at 
the first ball, will dispose a great many people to 
attend the second. It is more than they deserve; 
for, in fact, they add nothing to the pleasure 
of the evening: they come so late and go so early; 
but great people have always their charm.” 

Mr. Edwards proceeded to relate many other 
little articles of news which his morning’s lounge 
had supplied him with, and they chatted with 
greater briskness, till Mrs. Edwards’ moment for 
dressing arrived, and the young ladies were care- 
fully recommended to lose no time. Emma was 
shown to a very comfortable apartment, and as 
soon as Mrs. Edwards’ civilities could leave her to 
herself, the happy occupation, the first bliss of a 
ball, began. The girls, dressing in some measure 
together, grew unavoidably better acquainted. 
Emma found in Miss Edwards the show of good 
sense, a modest unpretending mind, and a great 
wish of obliging; and when they returned to the 
parlor where Mrs. Edwards was sitting, respectably 
attired in one of the two satin gowns which went 


114 


THE WATSONS. 


thr-jugli tlie winter, and a new cap from the 
milliner’s, they entered it with much easier feelings 
and more natural smiles than they had taken away. 
Their dress was now to be examined: Mrs. Edwards 
acknowledged herself too old-fashioned to approve 
of every modern extravagance, however sanctioned; 
and though complacently viewing her daughter’s 
good looks, would give hut a qualified admiration; 
and Mr. Edwards, not less satisfied with Mary, 
paid some compliments of good-humored gallantry 
to Emma at her expense. The discussion led to 
more intimate remarks, and Miss Edwards gently 
asked Emma if she was not often reckoned very 
like her youngest brother. Emma thought she 
could perceive a faint blush accompany the ques- 
tion, and there seemed something still more suspi- 
cious in the manner in which Mr. Edwards took up 
the subject. 

You are paying Miss Emma no great compli- 
ment, I think, Mary,” said he, hastily. “Mr. 
Sam Watson is a very good sort of young man, 
and I dare say a very clever surgeon; but his 
complexion has been rather too much exposed to 
all weathers to make a likeness to him very 
flattering.” 

Mary apologized, in some confusion, — 

“ She had not thought a strong likeness at all 
incompatible with very different degrees of beauty. 
There might be resemblance in countenance, and 
the complexion and even the features be very 
unlike.” 

“I know nothing of my brother’s beauty,” 
said Emma, “for I have not seen him since he 


THE WATSONS. 


115 


was seven years oldj but my father reckons us 
alike. 

‘^Mr. Watson!'^ cried Mr. Edwards; well, 
you astonish me. There is not the least likeness 
in the world; your brother’s eyes are gray, yours 
are brown; he has a long face and a wide mouth. 
My dear, do you perceive the least resemblance?” 

‘^Not the least: Miss Emma Watson puts me 
very much in mind of her eldest sister, and some- 
times I see a look of Miss Penelope, and once or 
twice there has been a glance of Mr. Kobert, but I 
cannot perceive any likeness to Mr. Samuel.” 

see the likeness between her and Miss 
Watson,” replied Mr. Edwards, ^Wery strongly, 
but I am not sensible of the others. I do not 
much think she is like any of the family but Miss 
Watson; but I am very sure there is no resem- 
blance between her and Sam.” 

This matter was settled, and they went to 
dinner. 

Your father. Miss Emma, is one of my oldest 
friends,” said Mr. Edwards, as he helped her to 
wine, when they were drawn round the fire to 
enjoy their dessert. We must drink to his 
better health. It is a great concern to me, I 
assure you, that he should be such an invalid. I 
know nobody who likes a game of cards, in a 
social way, better than he does, and very few 
people who play a fairer rubber. It is a thousand 
pities that he should be so deprived of the pleas- 
ure. Eor now we have a quiet little Whist Club, 
that meets three times a week at the White Hart ; 
and if he could but have his health, how much ha 
would enjoy it!” 


116 


THE WATSONS. 


dare say he would, sir; and I wish, with all 
my heart, he were equal to it.^’ 

‘^Your club would be better fitted for an in- 
valid, said Mrs. Edwards, ^‘if you did not keep 
it up so late.’’ This was an old grievance. 

‘^So late, my dear! What are you talking of? ” 
cried the husband, with sturdy pleasantry. ‘^We 
are always at home before midnight. They would 
laugh at Osborne Castle to hear you call that 
late; they are but just rising from dinner at 
midnight.” 

‘^That is nothing to the purpose,” retorted the 
lady, calmly. The Osbornes are to be no rule 
for us. You had better meet every night, and 
break up two hours sooner.’’ 

So far the subject was very often carried; but 
Mr. and Mrs. Edwards were so wise as never to 
pass that point; and Mr. Edwards now turned to 
something else. He had lived long enough in 
the idleness of a town to become a little of a 
gossip, and having some anxiety to know more of 
the circumstances of his young guest than had j^et 
reached him, he began with, — 

I think. Miss Emma, I remember your aunt 
very well, about thirty years ago; I am pretty 
sure I danced with her in the old rooms at 
Bath the year before I married. She was a 
very fine woman then; but like other people, I 
suppose, she is grown somewhat older since that 
time. I hope she is likely to be happy in her 
second choice.” 

hope so; I believe so, sir,” said Emma, in 
some agitation. 


THE WATSONS. 117 

Mr. Turner had not been dead a great while, 
I think? 

‘‘'About two years, sir.^’ 

“I forget what her name is now.’’ 

“O’Brien.” 

“Irish! ah, I remember; and she is gone to 
settle in Ireland. I do not wonder that you 
should not wish to go with her into that country. 
Miss Emma; but it must he a great deprivation to 
her, poor lady ! after bringing you up like a child 
of her own.” 

“I was not so ungrateful, sir,” said Emma, 
warmly, “as to wish to be anywhere but with her. 
It did not suit Captain O’Brien that I should be of 
the party.” 

“Captain!” repeated Mrs. Edwards. “The 
gentleman is in the army then ?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Ay, there is nothing like your officers for 
captivating the ladies, young or old. There is no 
resisting a cockade, my dear.” 

“I hope there is,” said Mrs. Edwards, gravely, 
with a quick glance at her daughter; and Emma 
had just recovered from her own perturbation in 
time to see a blush on Miss Edwards’ cheek, and 
in remembering what Elizabeth had said of Cap- 
tain Hunter, to wonder and waver between his 
influence and her brother’s. 

“Elderly ladies should be careful how they 
make a second choice,” observed Mr. Edwards. 

“Carefulness and discretion should not be con- 
fined to elderly ladies or to a second choice,” 
added his wife. “They are quite as necessary to 
young ladies in their first.” 


118 


THE WATSONS. 


‘^Rather more so, my dear,” replied he; be- 
cause young ladies are likely to feel the effects of 
it longer. When an old lady plays the fool, it is 
not in the course of nature that she should suffer 
from it many years.” 

Emma drew her hand across her eyes ; and Mrs. 
Edwards, in perceiving it, changed the subject to 
one of less anxiety to all. 

With nothing to do but to expect the hour of 
setting off, the afternoon was long to the two 
young ladies; and though Miss Edwards was 
rather discomposed at the very early hour which 
her mother always fixed for going, that early hour 
itself was watched for with some eagerness. The 
entrance of the tea-things at seven o’clock was 
some relief; and luckily Mr. and Mrs. Edwards 
always drank a dish extraordinary and ate an 
additional muffin when they were going to sit up 
late, which lengthened the ceremony almost to the 
wished-for moment. 

At a little before eight o’clock the Tomlinsons’ 
carriage was heard to go by, which was the con- 
stant signal for Mrs. Edwards to order hers to the 
door; and in a very few minutes the party were 
transported from the quiet and warmth of a snug 
parlor to the bustle, noise, and draughts of air 
of a broad entrance passage of an inn. Mrs. 
Edwards, carefully guarding her own dress, while 
she attended with yet greater solicitude to the 
proper security of her young charges’ shoulders 
and throats, led the way up the wide staircase, 
while no sound of a ball but the first scrape of one 
violin blessed the ears of her followers; and Miss 


THE WATSONS. 


119 


Edwards, on hazarding the anxious inquiry of 
\vhether there were many people come yet, was 
told by the waiter, as she knew she should, that 
Mr. Tomlinson’s family were in the room. 

In passing along a short gallery to the assembly- 
room, brilliant in lights before them, they were ac- 
costed by a young man in a morning-dress and 
boots, who was standing in the doorway of a bed- 
chamber apparently on purpose to see them go by. 

Ah! Mrs. Edwards, how do you do? How do 
you do. Miss Edwards? ” he cried, with an easy air. 

‘ ‘ You are determined to be in good time, I see, as 
usual. The candles are but this moment lit.” 

like to get a good seat by the fire, you know, 
Mr. Musgrave,” replied Mrs. Edwards. 

am this moment going to dress,” said he. 

I am waiting for my stupid fellow. We shall 
have a famous ball. The Osbornes are certainly 
coming; you may depend upon that, for I was with 
Lord Osborne this morning.” 

The party passed on. Mrs. Edwards’ satin gown 
swept along the clean floor of the ballroom to the 
fireplace at the upper end, where one party only 
were formally seated, while three or four officers 
were lounging together, passing in and out from 
the adjoining card-room. A very stiff meeting be- 
tween these near neighbors ensued; and as soon as 
they were all duly placed again, Emma, in a low 
whisper, which became the solemn scene, said to 
Miss Edwards, — 

^^The gentleman we passed in the passage was 
Mr. Musgrave, then; he is reckoned remarkably 
agreeable, I understand? ” 


120 


THE WATSONS. 


Miss Edwards answered hesitatingly, Yes; he 
is very much liked by many people; but we are not 
very intimate.^' 

He is rich, is not he? ’’ 

‘‘He has about eight or nine hundred a year, I 
believe. He came into possession of it when he 
was very young, and my father and mother think it 
has given him rather an unsettled turn. He is no 
favorite with them.’’ 

The cold and empty appearance of the room, and 
the demure air of the small cluster of females at 
one end of it, began soon to give way. The inspir- 
iting sound of other carriages was heard, and con- 
tinual accessions of portly chaperons and strings of 
smartly dressed girls were received, with now and 
then a fresh gentleman straggler, who, if not enough 
in love to station himself near any fair creature, 
seemed glad to escape into the card-room. 

Among the increasing number of military men, 
one now m*ade his way to Miss Edwards with an 
air of empressement which decidedly said to her 
companion, “I am Captain Hunter; ” and Emma, 
who could not but watch her at such a moment, 
saw her looking rather distressed, but by no means 
displeased, and heard an engagement formed for 
the two first dances, which made her think her 
brother Sam’s a hopeless case. 

Emma in the mean while was not unobserved or 
unadmired herself. A new face, and a verj^ pretty 
one, could not be slighted. Her name was whis- 
pered from one party to another; and no sooner had 
the signal been given by the orchestra’s striking up 
a favorite air, which seemed to call the young to 


THE WATSONS. 


121 


their duty and people the centre of the room, than 
she found herself engaged to dance with a brother 
officer, introduced by Captain Hunter. 

Emma Watson was not more than of the middle 
height, well made and plump, with an air of 
healthy vigor. Her skin was very brown, but 
clear, smooth, and glowing, which, with a lively 
eye, a sweet smile, and an open countenance, gave 
beauty to attract, and expression to make that 
beauty improve on acquaintance. Having no rea- 
son to be dissatisfied with her partner, the evening 
began very pleasantly to her, and her feelings per- 
fectly coincided with the reiterated observation of 
others, that it was an excellent ball. The two first 
dances were not quite over when the returning 
sound of carriages after a long interruption called 
general notice. ^‘The Osbornes are coming! 
The Osbornes are coming ! was repeated round 
the room. After some minutes of extraordinary’' 
bustle without and watchful curiosity within, the 
important party, preceded by the attentive master 
of the inn to open a door which was never shut, 
made their appearance. They consisted of Lady 
Osborne; her son. Lord Osborne; her daughter, 
Miss Osborne; Miss Carr, her daughter’s friend; 
Mr. Howard, formerly tutor to Lord Osborne, now 
clergyman of the parish in which the castle stood; 
Mrs. Blake, a widow sister, who lived with him; 
her son, a fine boy of ten years old ; and Mr. Tom 
Musgrave, who probably, imprisoned within his 
own room, had been listening in bitter impatience 
to the sound of the music for the last half-hour. 
In their progress up the room they paused almost 


122 


THE WATSONS. 


immediately behind Emma to receive the compli- 
ments of some acquaintance; and she heard Lady 
Osborne observe that they had made a point of 
coming early for the gratification of Mrs. Blake^s 
little boy, who was uncommonly fond of dancing. 
Emma looked at them all as they passed, but chiefly 
and with most interest on Tom Musgrave, who was 
certainly a genteel, good-looking young man. Of 
the females Lady Osborne had by much the finest 
person; though nearly fifty, she was very hand- 
some, and had all the dignity of rank. 

liord Osborne was a very fine young man; but 
there was an air of coldness, of carelessness, even 
of awkwardness about him, which seemed to speak 
him out of his element in a ball-room. He came, 
in fact, only because it was judged expedient for 
him to please the borough; he was not fond of 
women^s company, and he never danced. Mr. 
Howard was an agreeable-looking man, a little 
more than thirty. 

At the conclusion of the two dances Emma 
found herself, she knew not how, seated amongst 
the Osbornes^ set; and she was immediately struck 
with the fine countenance and animated gestures of 
the little boy, as he was standing before his mother, 
considering when they should begin. 

^^You will not be surprised at Charleses impa- 
tience,^’ said Mrs. Blake, a lively, pleasant-looking 
little woman of five or six and thirty, to a lady who 
was standing near her, ^^when you know what a 
partner he is to have. Miss Osborne has been so 
very kind as to promise to dance the two first 
dances with him.’’ 


THE WATSONS 


123 


*^Oh, yes! we have been engaged this week, 
cried the boy, ‘^and we are to dance down every 
couple/’ 

On the other side of Emma, Miss Osborne, Miss 
Carr, and a party of young men were standing 
engaged in very lively consultation ; and soon after- 
wards she saw the smartest officer of the set walk- 
ing off to the orchestra to order the dance, while 
Miss Osborne, passing before her to her little ex- 
pecting partner, hastily said: ^‘Charles, I beg 
your pardon for not keeping my engagement, but 
I am going to dance these two dances with Colonel 
Beresford. I know you will excuse me, and I will 
certainly dance with you after tea;” and without 
staying for an answer, she turned again to Miss 
Carr, and in another minute was led by Colonel 
Beresford to begin the set. If the poor little boy’s 
face had in its happiness been interesting to 
Emma, it was infinitely more so under this sudden 
reverse; he stood the picture of disappointment, 
with crimsoned cheeks, quivering lips, and eyes 
bent on the floor. His mother, stifling her own 
mortification, tried to soothe his with the prospect 
of Miss Osborne’s second promise; but though he 
contrived to utter, with an effort of boyish bravery. 
<‘Oh, I do not mind it! ” it was very evident, by 
the unceasing agitation of his features, that he 
minded it as much as ever. 

Emma did not think or reflect; she felt and 
acted. ‘‘I shall be very happy to dance with you, 
sir, if you like it,” said she, holding out her hand 
with the most unaffected good-humor. The boy, in 
one moment restored to all his first delight, looked 


124 


THE WATSONS. 


joyfully at his mother; and stepping forwards with 
an honest, simple Thank you, ma’am, was 
instantly ready to attend his new acquaintance. 
The thankfulness of Mrs. Blake was more diffuse; 
with a look most expressive of unexpected pleasure 
and lively gratitude, she turned to her neighbor 
with repeated and fervent acknowledgments of so 
great and condescending a kindness to her boy. 
Emma with perfect truth could assure her that she 
could not be giving greater pleasure than she felt 
herself; and Charles being provided with his gloves 
and charged to keep them on, they joined the set 
which was now rapidly forming, with nearly equal 
complacency. It was a partnership which could 
not be noticed without surprise. It gained her a 
broad stare from Miss Osborne and Miss Carr as 
they passed her in the dance. ‘‘Upon my word, 
Charles, you are in luck,” said the former, as she 
turned him; “you have got a better partner than 
me; ” to which the happy Charles answered 
“Yes.” 

Tom Musgrave, who was dancing with Miss 
Carr, gave her many inquisitive glances; and after 
a time Lord Osborne himself came, and under pre- 
tence of talking to Charles, stood to look at his 
partner. Though rather distressed by such obser- 
vation, Emma could not repent what she had done, 
so happy had it made both the boy and his mother; 
the latter of whom was continually making oppor- 
tunities of addressing her with the warmest civ- 
ility. Her little partner she found, though bent 
chiefly on dancing, was not unwilling to speak, 
when her questions or remarks gave him anything 


THE WATSONS. 


125 


to say; and she learnt, by a sort of inevitable in- 
quiry, that he had two brothers and a sister, that 
they and their mamma all lived with his uncle at 
Wickstead, that his uncle taught him Latin, that 
he was very fond of riding, and had a horse of his 
own given him by Lord Osborne; and that he 
had been out once already with Lord Osborne’s 
hounds. 

At the end of these dances Emma found they 
were to drink tea; Miss Edwards gave her a cau- 
tion to be at hand, in a manner which convinced 
her of Mrs. Edwards’ holding it very important to 
have them both close to her when she moved into 
the tea-room; and Emma was accordingly on the 
alert to gain her proper station. It was always the 
pleasure of the company to have a little bustle and 
crowd when they adjourned for refreshment. The 
tea-room was a small room within the card-room; 
and in passing through the latter, where the 
passage was straitened by tables, Mrs. Edwards 
and her party were for a few moments hemmed in. 
It happened close by Lady Osborne’s casino-table; 
Mr. Howard, who belonged to it, spoke to his ne- 
phew; and Emma, on perceiving herself the object 
of attention both to Lady Osborne and him, had 
just turned away her eyes in time to avoid 
seeming to hear her young companion exclaim 
delightedly aloud, ^^Oh, uncle! do look at my 
partner; she is so pretty! ” As they were imme- 
diately in motion again, however, Charles was 
hurried off without being able to receive his 
uncle’s suffrage. On entering the tea-room, in 
which two long tables were prepared, Lord Osborne 


126 


THE WATSONS. 


was to be seen quite alone at tlie end of one, as if 
retreating as far as he could from the ball, to en- 
joy his own thoughts and gape without restraint. 
Charles instantl}^ pointed him out to Emma. 

There ^s Lord Osborne; let you and I go and sit 
by him.^^ 

‘‘No, no,” said Emma, laughing; “you must 
sit with my friends.’^ 

Charles was now free enough to hazard a few 
questions in his turn. “ What o’clock was it? ” 

“ Eleven.” 

“Eleven! and I am not at all sleepy. Mamma 
said I should be asleep before ten. Do you think 
Miss Osborne will keep her word with me when 
tea is over? ” 

“ Oh, yes! I suppose so; ” though she felt that 
she had no better reason to give than that Miss 
Osborne had not kept it before. 

“When shall you come to Osborne Castle?” 

“Never, probably. I am not acquainted with 
the family.” 

“But you may come to Wickstead and see 
mamma, and she can take you to the castle. There 
is a monstrous curious stuffed fox there, and a 
badger; anybody would think they were alive. It 
is a pity you should not see them.” 

On rising from tea there was again a scramble 
for the pleasure of being first out of the room, 
which happened to be increased by one or two of 
the card-parties having just broken up, and the 
players being disposed to move exactly the differ- 
ent way. Among these was Mr. Howard, his 
sister leaning on his arm; and no sooner were they 


THE WATSONS. 


127 


within reach of Emma, than Mrs. Blake, calling 
her notice by a friendly touch, said, Your good- 
ness to Charles, my dear Miss Watson, brings all 
his family upon you. Give me leave to introduce my 
brother.’’ Emma courtesied, the gentleman bowed, 
made a hasty request for the honor of her hand in 
the two next dances, to which as hasty an affirma- 
tive was given, and they were immediately impelled 
in opposite directions. Emma was very well pleased 
with the circumstance; there was a quietly cheer- 
ful, gentlemanlike air in Mr. Howard which suited 
her; and in a few minutes afterwards the value of 
her engagement increased, when as she was sitting 
in the card-room, somewhat screened by a door, she 
heard Lord Osborne, who was lounging on a va- 
cant table near her, call Tom Musgrave towards 
him and say, Why do not you dance with that 
beautiful Emma Watson? I want you to dance 
with her, and I will come and stand by you.” 

was determined on it this very moment, my 
lord; I’ll be introduced and dance with her 
directly.” 

‘^Ay, do; and if you find she does not want 
much talking to, you may introduce me by and 

by.’’ 

“Very well, my lord; if she is like her sisters, 
she will only want to be listened to. I will go 
this moment. I shall find her in the tea-room. 
That stiff old Mrs. Edwards has never done tea.” 

Away he went. Lord Osborne after him; and 
Emma lost no time in hurrying from her corner 
exactly the other way, forgetting in her haste that 
she left Mrs. Edwards behind. 


128 


THE WATSONS. 


had quite lost you/^ said Mrs. Edwards, 
who followed her with Mary in less than five min- 
utes. If you prefer this room to the other, there 
is no reason why you should not be herej but we 
had better all be together. 

Emma was saved the trouble of apologizing, by 
their being joined at the moment by Tom Mus- 
grave, who requesting Mrs. Edwards aloud to do 
him the honor of presenting him to Miss Emma 
Watson, left that good lad}^ without any choice in 
the business, but that of testifying by the coldness 
of her manner that she did it unwillingly. The 
honor of dancing with her was solicited without 
loss of time; and Emma, however she might like 
to be thought a beautiful girl by lord or com- 
moner, was so little disposed to favor Tom Mus- 
grave himself that she had considerable satisfaction 
in avowing her previous engagement. He was 
evidently surprised and discomposed. The style 
of her last partner had probably led him to believe 
her not overpowered with applications. 

^^My little friend, Charles Blake, he cried, 
‘^must not expect to engross you the whole even- 
ing. We can never suffer this. It is against the 
rules of the assembly, and I am sure it will never 
be patronized by our good friend here, Mrs. Ed- 
wards; she is by much too nice a judge of de- 
corum to give her license to such a dangerous 
particularity — ’’ 

^^I am not going to dance with Master Blake, 
sir! 

The gentleman, a little disconcerted, could only 
hope he might be fortunate another time, and seem- 


THE WATSONS. 


129 


ing unwilling to leave her, though his friend, Lord 
Osborne, was waiting in the doorway for the result, 
as Emma with some amusement perceived, he began 
to make civil inquiries after her family. 

How comes it that we have not the pleasure of 
seeing your sisters here this evening? Our assem- 
blies have been used to be so well treated by them 
that we do not know how to take this neglect.” 

^^My eldest sister is the only one at home, and 
she could not leave my father.” 

‘‘Miss Watson the only one at home! You as- 
tonish me! It seems but the day before yesterday 
that I saw them all three in this town. But I am 
afraid I have been a very sad neighbor of late. I 
hear dreadful complaints of my negligence wher- 
ever I go, and I confess it is a shameful length of 
time since I was at Stanton. But I shall now en- 
deavor to make myself amends for the past.” 

Emma^s calm courtesy in reply must have struck 
him as very unlike the encouraging warmth he liad 
been used to receive from her sisters, and gave him 
probably the novel sensation of doubting his own 
influence, and of wishing for more attention than 
she bestowed. The dancing now recommenced; 
Miss Carr being impatient to call, everybody was 
required to stand up; and Tom Musgrave^s curi- 
osity was appeased on seeing Mr. Howard come 
forward and claim Emma’s hand. 

“That will do as well for me,” was Lord Os- 
borne’s remark, when his friend carried him the 
news, and he was continually at Howard’s elbow 
during the two dances. 

The frequency of his appearance there was the 
9 


130 


THE WATSONS. 


only unpleasant part of the engagement, the only 
objection she could make to Mr. Howard. In him- 
self, she thought him as agreeable as he looked; 
though chatting on the commonest topics, he had 
a sensible, unaffected way of expressing himself, 
which made them all worth hearing, and she only 
regretted that he had not been able to make his 
pupil’s manners as unexceptionable as his own. 
The two dances seemed very short, and she had her 
partner’s authority for considering them so. At 
their conclusion the Osbornes and their train were 
all on the move. 

‘^We are off at last,” said his lordship to Tom. 

How much longer do you stay in this heavenly 
jdace? — till sunrise? ” 

‘‘No, faith! my lord; I have had quite enough 
of it, I assure you. I shall not show myself here 
again when I have had the honor of attending Lady 
Osborne to her carriage. I shall retreat in as much 
secrecy as possible to the most remote corner of the 
house, where I shall order a barrel of oysters, and 
he famously snug.” 

“Let me see you soon at the castle, and bring 
me word how she looks by daylight.” 

Emma and Mrs. Blake parted as old acquaint- 
ance, and Charles shook her by the hand, and 
wished her good-by at least a dozen times. From 
Miss Osborne and Miss Carr she received some- 
thing like a jerking courtesy as they passed her; 
even Lady Osborne gave her a look of complacency, 
and his lordship actually came back, after the others 
W'ere out of the room, to “beg her pardon,’^ and 
look in the window-seat behind her for the gloves 


THE WATSONS. 


131 


which were visibly compressed in his hand. As 
Tom Musgrave was seen no more, we may suppose 
his plan to have succeeded, and imagine him mor- 
tifying with his barrel of oysters in dreary soli- 
tude, or gladly assisting the landlady in her bar to 
make fresh negus for the happy dancers above. 
Emma could not help missing the party by whom 
she had been, though in some respects unpleas- 
antly, distinguished; and the two dances which 
followed and concluded the ball were rather flat in 
comparison with the others. Mr. Edwards having 
played with good luck, they were some of the last 
in the room. 

Here we are back again, I declare, ” said Emma, 
sorrowfully, as she walked into the dining-room, 
where the table was prepared, and the neat upper 
maid was lighting the candles. 

My dear Miss Edwards, how soon it is at an 
end! I wish it could all come over again. 

A great deal of kind pleasure was expressed in 
her having enjoyed the evening so much; and Mr. 
Edwards was as warm as herself in the praise of 
the fulness, brilliancy, and spirit of the meeting, 
though as he had been fixed the whole time at the 
same table in the same room, with only one change 
of chairs, it might have seemed a matter scarcely 
perceived ; but he had won four rubbers out of five, 
and everything went well. His daughter felt the 
advantage of this gratified state of mind, in the 
course of the remarks and retrospections which 
now ensued over the welcome soup. 

How came you not to dance with either of the 
Mr. Tomlinsons, Mary? ’’ said her mother. 


132 


THE WATSONS. 


was always engaged wlien they asked me.^' 

“ I thought you were to have stood up with 
Mr. James the two last dances; NIrs. Tomlinson 
told me he was gone to ask you, and I had heard 
you say two minutes before that you were not 
engaged/^ 

‘ ‘ Yes, but there was a mistake ; I had misunder- 
stood. I did not know I was engaged. I thought 
it had been for the two dances after, if we stayed 
so long; but Captain Hunter assured me it was for 
those very two.’’ 

So you ended with Captain Hunter, Mary, did 
you? ” said her father. And whom did you begin 
with? ” 

Captain Hunter,” was repeated in a very hum- 
ble tone. 

Hum! That is being constant, however. But 
who else did you dance with? ” 

^‘Mr. Horton and Mr. Styles.” 

And who are they? ” 

Mr. Horton is a cousin of Captain Hunter’s.” 

*^And who is Mr. Styles?” 

‘‘One of his particular friends.” 

“All in the same regiment,” added Mrs. 
Edwards. “Mary was surrounded by red-coats all 
the evening. I should have been better pleased to 
see her dancing with some of our old neighbors, I 
confess.” 

“Yes, yes; we must not neglect our old neigh- 
bors. But if these soldiers are quicker than other 
people in a ball-room, what are young ladies to 
do?” 

“ I think there is no occasion for their engaging 


THE WATSONS. 133 

themselves so many dances before hand, Mr. 
Edwards.’’ 

^^No, perhaps not; but I remember, my dear, 
when you and I did the same.” 

Mrs. Edwards said no more, and Mary breathed 
again. A good deal of good-humored pleasantry 
followed; and Emma went to bed in charming 
spirits, her head full of Osbornes, Blakes, and 
Howards. 

The next morning brought a great many visitors. 
It was the way of the place always to call on Mrs. 
Edwards the morning after a ball, and this neigh- 
borly inclination was increased in the present 
instance by a general spirit of curiosity on Emma’s 
account, as everybody wanted to look again at the 
girl who had been admired the night before by 
Lord Osborne. Many were the eyes, and various 
the degrees of approbation with which she w'as 
examined. Some saw no fault, and some no beauty. 
With some her brown skin was the annihilation of 
every grace, and others could never be persuaded 
that she was half so handsome as Elizabeth Wat- 
son had been ten years ago. The morning passed 
quickly away in discussing the merits of the ball 
with all this succession of company; and Emma 
was at once astonished by finding it two o’clock, 
and considering that she had heard nothing of her 
father’s chair. After this discovery she had 
walked twice to the window to examine the street, 
and was on the point of asking leave to ring the 
bell and make inquiries, when the light sound of a 
carriage driving up to the door set her heart at 
ease. She stepped again to the window, but 


134 


THE WATSONS. 


instead of the convenient though very un-smart 
family equipage perceived a neat curricle. Mr. 
Musgrave was shortly afterwards announced, and 
Mrs. Edwards put on her very stiffest look at the 
sound. Not at all dismayed, however, by her chill- 
ing air, he paid his compliments to each of the 
ladies with no unbecoming ease, and continuing to 
address Emma, presented her a note, which ^^he 
had the honor of bringing from her sister, but to 
which he must observe a verbal postscript from 
himself would be requisite.’^ 

The note, which Emma was beginning to read 
rather before Mrs. Edwards had entreated her 
to use no ceremony, contained a few lines from 
Elizabeth importing that their father, in conse- 
quence of being unusually well, had taken the 
sudden resolution of attending the visitation that 
day, and that as his road lay quite wide from D., it 
was impossible for her to come home till the 
following morning, unless the Edwards would send 
her, which was hardly to be expected, or she could 
meet with any chance conveyance, or did not mind 
walking so far. She had scarcely run her eye 
through the whole, before she found herself 
obliged to listen to Tom Musgrave’s further 
account. 

received that note from the fair hands of 
Miss Watson only ten minutes ago,’’ said he; ‘‘I 
met her in the village of Stanton, whither my 
good stars prompted me to turn my horses’ heads. 
She was at that moment in quest of a person to 
employ on the errand, and I was fortunate enough 
to convince her that she could not find a more 


THE WATSONS. 


135 


willing or speedy messenger than myself. Eemem- 
ber, I say nothing of my disinterestedness. My 
reward is to he the indulgence of conveying you 
to Stanton in my curricle. Though they are not 
written down, I bring your sister’s orders for the 
same.” 

Emma felt distressed; she did not like the 
proposal, — she did not wish to he on terms of 
intimacy with the proposer; and yet, fearful of 
encroaching on the Edwards, as well as wishing to 
go home herself, she was at a loss how entirely to 
decline what he offered. Mrs. Edwards continued 
silent, either not understanding the case, or wait- 
ing to see how the young lady’s inclination lay. 
Emma thanked him, but professed herself very 
unwilling to give him so much trouble. ‘‘The 
trouble was of course honor, pleasure, delight, — 
what had he or his horses to do?” Still she 
hesitated, — “She believed she must beg leave to 
decline his assistance; she was rather afraid of the 
sort of carriage. The distance was not beyond a 
walk.” Mrs. Edward was silent no longer. She 
inquired into the particulars, and then said, “We 
shall he extremely happy. Miss Emma, if you can 
give us the pleasure of your company till to* 
morrow; hut if you cannot conveniently do so, our 
carriage is quite at your service, and Mary will be 
pleased with the opportunity of seeing your sister.” 

This was precisely w^hat Emma had longed for, 
and she accepted the offer most thankfully, acknowl- 
edging that as Elizabeth was entirely alone, it 
was her wish to return home to dinner. The plan 
was warmly opposed by their visitor, — 


136 


THE WATSONS. 


cannot suffer it, indeed. I must not be 
deprived of the happiness of escorting you. I 
assure you there is not a possibility of fear with 
my horses. You might guide them yourself. 
Your sisters all know how quiet they are; they 
have none of them the smallest scruple in trusting 
themselves with me, even on a race-course. Be- 
lieve me,’’ added he, lowering his voice, ^^you 
are quite safe, — the danger is only mine.” 

Emma was not more disposed to oblige him for 
all this. 

And as to Mrs. Edwards’ carriage being used 
the day after a ball, it is a thing quite out of rule, 
I assure you, — never heard of before. The old 
coachman will look as black as his horses, — 
won’t he. Miss Edwards?” 

No notice was taken. The ladies were silently 
firm, and the gentleman found himself obliged to 
submit. 

‘^What a famous ball we had last night!” he 
cried, after a short pause. How long did you 
keep it up after the Osbornes and I went away?” 

We had two dances more.” 

‘‘It is making it too much of a fatigue, I think, 
to stay so late. I suppose your set was not a very 
full one.” 

“Yes; quite as full as ever, except the Osbornes. 
There seemed no vacancy anywhere; and every- 
body danced with uncommon spirit to the very 
last.” 

Emma said this, though against her conscience. 

“Indeed! perhaps I might have looked in upon 
you again, if I had been, aware of as much; for I 


THE WATSONS. 137 

am rather fond of dancing than not. Miss Os- 
borne is a charming girl, is not she? ” 

I do not think her handsome, replied Emma, 
to whom all this was chiefly addressed. 

Perhaps she is not critically handsome, but 
her manners are d,elightfiil. And Fanny Carr is 
a most interesting little creature. You can im- 
agine nothing more naive ox 'piquant e; and what do 
you think of Lord Osborne, Miss Watson? 

He would be handsome even though he were 
not a lord, and perhaps, better bred; more desirous 
of pleasing and showing himself pleased in a right 
place.’’ 

“ Upon my word, you are severe upon my friend! 
I assure you Lord Osborne is a very good fellow.” 

I do not dispute his virtues, but I do not like 
his careless air.” 

‘^If it were not a breach of confidence,” replied 
Tom, with an important look, perhaps I might 
be able to win a more favorable opinion of poor 
Osborne.” 

Emma gave him no encouragement, and he was 
obliged to keep his friend’s secret. He was also 
obliged to put an end to his visit, for Mrs. Ed- 
wards having ordered her carriage, there w'as no 
time to be lost on Emma’s side in preparing for it. 
Miss Edwards accompanied her home; but as it 
was dinner-hour at Stanton, stayed with them only 
a few minutes. 

^^How, my dear Emma,” said Miss Watson, as 
soon as they were alone, ^^you must talk to me all 
the rest of the day without stopping, or I shall not 
be satisfied; but, first of all, Nanny shall bring in 


138 


THE WATSONS. 


the dinner. Poor thing! You will not dine as 
you did yesterday, for we have nothing but some 
fried beef. How nice Mary Edwards looks in her 
new pelisse! And now tell me how you like them 
all, and what I am to s&y to Sam. I have begun 
my letter; Jack Stokes is to call for it to-morrow, 
for his uncle is going within a mile of Guildford 
next day.’^ 

Nanny brought in the dinner. 

‘^We will wait upon ourselves/^ continued 
Elizabeth, and then we shall lose no time. And 
so you would not come home with Tom Mus- 
grave?” 

^‘No, you had said so much against him that I 
could not wish either for the obligation or the 
intimacy which the use of his carriage must have 
created. I should not even have liked the appear- 
ance of it.’’ 

You did very right; though I wonder at your 
forbearance, and I do not think I could have done 
it myself. He seemed so eager to fetch you that I 
could not say no, though it rather went against 
me to be throwing you together, so well as I knew 
his tricks; but I did long to see you, and it was a 
clever way of getting you home. Besides, it won’t 
do to be too nice. Nobody could have thought of 
the Edwards letting you have their coach, after the 
horses being out so late. But what am I to say to 
Sam?” 

If you are guided by me, you will not encour- 
age him to think of Miss Edwards. The father is 
decidedly against him, the mother shows him no 
favor, and I doubt his having any interest with 


THE WATSONS. 


139 


Mary. She danced twice with Captain Hunter, 
and I think shows him in general as much encour- 
agement as is consistent with her disposition and 
the circumstances she is placed in. She once 
mentioned Sam, and certainly with a little confu- 
sion; but that was perhaps merely owing to the 
consciousness of his liking her, which may very 
probably have come to her knowledge.’’ 

“ Oh, dear! yes. She has heard enough of that 
from us all. Poor Sam! he is out of luck as well 
as other people. For the life of me, Emma, I 
cannot help feeling for those that are crossed in 
love. Well, now begin, and give me an account 
of everything as it happened.” 

Emma obeyed her, and Elizabeth listened with 
very little interruption till she heard of Mr. 
Howard as a partner. 

Dance with Mr. Howard! Good heavens! you 
don’t say so ! Why he is quite one of the great and 
grand ones. Did you not find him very high? ” 
‘^His manners are of a kind to give me much 
more ease and confidence than Tom Musgrave’s.” 

Well, go on. I should have been frightened 
out of my wits to have had anything to do with 
the Osbornes’ set.” 

Emma concluded her narration. 

And so you really did not dance with Tom 
Musgrave at all ; but you must have liked him, — 
you must have been struck with him altogether.” 

I do not like him, Elizabeth. 1 allow his 
person and air to be good, and that his manners to 
a certain point — his address rather — is pleasing; 
but I see nothing else to admire in him. On the 


140 


THE WATSONS. 


contrary, he seems ver}^ vain, very conceited, 
absurdly anxious for distinction, and absolutely 
contemptible in some of the measures he takes for 
being so. There is a ridiculousness about him 
that entertains me; but his company gives me no 
other agreeable emotion.’^ 

‘^My dearest Emma! you are like nobody else 
in the world. It is well Margaret is not by. You 
do not offend me, though I hardly know how to 
believe you; but Margaret would never forgive 
such words. 

I wish Margaret could have heard him profess 
his ignorance of her being out of the country; he 
declared it seemed only two days since he had seen 
her.’^ 

Ay, that is just like him; and yet this is the 
man she will fancy so desperately in love with 
her. He is no favorite of mine, as you well know, 
Emma; but you must think him agreeable. Can 
you lay your hand on your heart, and say you do 
not?’’ 

Indeed, I can, both hands ; and spread them to 
their widest extent. ” 

“ I should like to know the man you do think 
agreeable.” 

‘‘His name is Howard.” 

“Howard! Dear me; I cannot think of him 
but as playing cards with Lady Osborne, and look- 
ing proud. I must own, however, that it is a 
relief to me to find you can speak as you do of 
Tom Musgrave. My heart did misgive me that 
you would like him too well. You talked so 
stoutly beforehand, that I was sadly afraid your 


THE WATSONS. 


141 


brag would be punished. I only hope it will last, 
and that he will not come on to pay you much 
attention. It is a hard thing for a woman to 
stand against the flattering ways of a man when 
he is bent upon pleasing her.’^ 

As their quietly sociable little meal concluded, 
Miss Watson could not help observing how com- 
fortably it had passed. 

‘^It is so delightful to me,’’ said she, ^^to have 
things going on in peace and good-humor. No- 
body can tell how much I hate quarrelling. Now, 
though we have had nothing but fried beef, how 
good it has all seemed! I wish everybody were as 
easily satisfied as you; but poor Margaret is very 
snappish, and Penelope owns she would rather have 
quarrelling going on than nothing at all.” 

Mr. Watson returned in the evening not the 
worse for the exertion of the day, and, conse- 
quently, pleased with what he had done, and glad 
to talk of it over his own fireside. Emma had not 
foreseen any interest to herself in the occurrences 
of a visitation; but when she heard Mr. Howard 
spoken of as the preacher, and as having given 
them an excellent sermon, she could not help 
listening with a quicker ear. 

I do not know when I have heard a discourse 
more to my mind,” continued Mr. Watson, ^‘or 
one better delivered. He reads extremely well, 
with great propriety, and in a very impressive 
manner, and at the same time without any theat- 
rical grimace or violence. I own I do not like 
much action in the pulpit; I do not like the 
studied air and artificial inflexions of voice which 


142 


THE WATSONS. 


your very popular and most admired preachers 
generally have. A simple delivery is much bet- 
ter calculated to inspire devotion, and shows a 
much better taste. Mr. Howard read like a 
scholar and a gentleman.” 

And what had you for dinner, sir? ’’ said his 
eldest daughter. 

He related the dishes, and told what he had ate 
himself. 

‘^Upon the whole,” he added, ‘‘I have had a 
very comfortable day. My old friends were quite 
surprised to see me amongst them, and I must say 
that everybody paid me great attention, and 
seemed to feel for me as an invalid. They would 
make me sit near the fire; and as the partridges 
were pretty high. Dr. Richards would have them 
sent away to the other end of the table, ‘Hhat 
they might not offend Mr. Watson,” which I 
thought very kind of him. But what pleased me 
as much as anything was Mr. Howard’s attention. 
There is a pretty steep flight of steps up to the 
room we dine in, which do not quite agree with 
my gouty foot; and Mr. Howard walked by me 
from the bottom to the top, and would make me 
take his arm. It struck me as very becoming in 
so young a man; but I am sure I had no claim to 
expect it, for I never saw him before in my life. By 
the by, he inquired after one of my daughters ; but I 
do not know which. I suppose you know among 
yourselves.” 

On the third day after the ball, as NTanny, at 
five minutes before three, was beginning to bustle 


THE WATSONS. 


143 


into the parlor with the tray and knife-case, she 
was suddenly called to the front door by the sound 
of as smart a rap as the end of a riding-whip could 
give; and though charged by Miss Watson to let 
nobody in, returned in half a minute with a look 
of awkward dismay to hold the parlor door open 
for Lord Osborne and Tom Musgrave. The sur- 
prise of the young ladies may be imagined. No 
visitors would have been welcome at such a mo- 
ment, but such visitors as these, — such an one as 
Lord Osborne at least, a nobleman and a stranger, 
was really distressing. 

He looked a little embarrassed himself, as, on 
being introduced by his easy, voluble friend, he 
muttered something of doing himself the honor 
of waiting upon Mr. Watson. Though Emma 
could not but take the compliment of the visit to 
herself, she was very far from enjoying it. She 
felt all the inconsistency of such an acquaintance 
with the very humble style in which they were 
obliged to live; and having in her aunt’s family 
been used to many of the elegancies of life, was 
fully sensible of all that must be open to the ridi- 
cule of richer people in her present home. Of the 
pain of such feelings, Elizabeth knew very little. 
Her simple mind, or juster reason, saved her from 
such mortification; and though shrinking under a 
general sense of inferiority, she felt no particular 
shame. Mr. Watson, as the gentleman had al- 
readj’^ heard from Nanny, was not well enough to 
be down-stairs. With much concern they took 
their seats; Lord Osborne near Emma, and the 
convenient Mr. Musgrave, in high spirits at his 


144 


THE WATSONS. 


own importance, on tlie other side of the fireplace, 
with Elizabeth. He was at no loss for words; 
but when Lord Osborne had hoped that Emma had 
not caught cold at the ball, he had nothing more to 
say for some time, and could only gratify his eye 
by occasional glances at his fair companion. 
Emma was not inclined to give herself much 
trouble for his entertainment; and after hard 
labor of mind, he produced the remark of its being 
a very fine day, and followed it up with the 
question of, Have you been walking this 
morning? ’’ 

^‘No, my lord; we thought it too dirty.’^ 

^^You should wear half-boots.’’ After another 
pause : Hothing sets off a neat ankle more than 

a half-boot; nankeen, galoshed with black, looks 
very well. Do not you like half-boots? ” 

Yes; but unless they are so stout as to injure 
their beauty, they are not fit for country walk- 
ing.” 

Ladies should ride in dirty weather. Do you 
ride? ” 

^‘Ho, my lord.” 

I wonder every lady does not; a woman never 
looks better than on horseback.” 

^^But every woman may not have the inclina- 
tion or the means.” 

If they knew how much it became them, they 
would all have the inclination; and I fancy. Miss 
Watson, when once they had the inclination, the 
means would soon follow.” 

Your lordship thinks we always have our own 
way. That is a point on which ladies and gentle- 


THE WATSONS. 


145 


men have long disagreed; but without pretending 
to decide it, I may say that there are some circum- 
stances which even women cannot control. Fe- 
male economy will do a great deal, my lord; but it 
cannot turn a small income into a large one.’^ 

Lord Osborne was silenced. Her manner had 
been neither sententious nor sarcastic; hut there 
was a something in its mild seriousness, as well as 
in the words themselves, which made his lordship 
think; and when he addressed her again, it was 
with a degree of considerate propriety totally un- 
like the half-awkward, half-fearless style of his 
former remarks. It was a new thing with him to 
wish to please a woman; it was the first time that 
he had ever felt what was due to a woman in 
Emma’s situation ; but as he was wanting neither 
in sense nor a good disposition, he did not feel it 
without effect. 

You have not been long in this country, I un- 
derstand,” said he, in the tone of a gentleman. 
‘‘I hope you are pleased with it.” 

He was rewarded by a gracious answer, and a 
more liberal full view of her face than she had yet 
bestowed. Unused to exert himself, and happy in 
contemplating her, he then sat in silence for some 
minutes longer, while Tom Musgrave was chatter- 
ing to Elizabeth; till they were interrupted by 
NTanny’s approach, who, half-opening the door and 
putting in her head, said, — 

^‘Please, ma’am, master wants to know why he 
be n’t to have his dinner? ” 

The gentlemen, who had hitherto disregarded 
every symptom, however positive, of the nearness 
10 


146 


THE WATSONS. 


of that meal, now jumped up with apologies, while 
Elizabeth called briskly after Nanny to take up 
the fowls. 

I am sorry it happens so,” she added, turning 
good-humoredly towards Musgrave, ^^but you 
know what early hours we keep.” 

Tom had nothing to say for himself; he knew it 
very well, and such honest simplicity, such shame- 
less truth, rather bewildered him. Lord Osborne’s 
parting compliments took some time, his inclina- 
tion for speech seeming to increase with the short- 
ness of the term for indulgence. He recommended 
exercise in defiance of dirt; spoke again in praise 
of half-boots; begged that his sister might be al- 
lowed to send Emma the name of her shoemaker; 
and concluded with saying, ^^My hounds will he 
hunting this country next week. I believe they 
will throw off at Stanton Wood on Wednesday, at 
nine o’clock. I mention this in hopes of your 
being drawn out to see what ’s going on. If the 
morning ’s tolerable, pray do us the honor of giv- 
ing us your good wishes in person.” 

The sisters looked on each other with astonish- 
ment when their visitors had withdrawn. 

Here’s an unaccountable honor! ” cried Eliza- 
beth, at last. Who would have thought of Lord 
Osborne’s coming to Stanton? He is very hand- 
some; hut Tom Musgrave looks all to nothing the 
smartest and most fashionable man of the two. I 
am glad he did not say anything to me; I would 
not have had to talk to such a great man for the 
world. Tom was very agreeable, was not he? But 
did you hear him ask where Miss Penelope and 


THE WATSONS. 


147 


Miss Margaret were, when he first came in? It 
put me out of patience. I am glad Nanny had not 
laid the cloth, however, — it would have looked so 
awkward; just the tray did not signify.’’ To say 
that Emma was not flattered by Lord Osborne’s 
visit would be to assert a very unlikely thing and 
describe a very odd young lady; but the gratifica- 
tion was by no means unalloyed: his coming was 
a sort of notice which might please her vanity, but 
did not suit her pride ; and she would rather have 
known that he wished the visit without presuming 
to make it, than have seen him at Stanton. 

Among other unsatisfactory feelings it once oc- 
curred to her to wonder why Mr. Howard had not 
taken the same privilege of coming, and accom- 
panied his lordship; but she was willing to suppose 
that he had either known nothing about it, or had 
declined any share in a measure which carried 
quite as much impertinence in its form as good- 
breeding. Mr. Watson was very far from being 
delighted when he heard what had passed; a little 
peevish under immediate pain, and ill-disposed to 
be pleased, he only replied, — 

<^Pooh! pooh! what occasion could there be for 
Lord Osborne’s coming? I have lived here four- 
teen years without being noticed by any of the 
family. It is some fooling of that idle fellow, Tom 
Musgrave. I cannot return the visit. I would 
not if I could.’’ And when Tom Musgrave was 
met with again, he was commissioned with a mes- 
sage of excuse to Osborne Castle, on the too-suffi- 
cient plea of Mr. Watson’s infirm state of health. 

A week or ten days rolled quietly away after this 


148 


THE WATSONS. 


visit before any new bustle arose to interrupt even 
for half a day the tranquil and affectionate inter- 
course of the two sisters, whose mutual regard was 
increasing with the intimate knowledge of each 
other which such intercourse produced. The first 
circumstance to break in on their security was the 
receipt of a letter from Croydon to announce the 
speedy return of Margaret, and a visit of two or 
three days from Mr. and Mrs. E-obert Watson, who 
undertook to bring her home, and wished to see 
their sister Emma. 

It was an expectation to fill the thoughts of the 
sisters at Stanton and to busy the hours of one of 
them at least; for, as Jane had been a woman of 
fortune, the preparations for her entertainment 
were considerable; and as Elizabeth had at all 
times more goodwill than method in her guidance 
of the house, she could make no change without a 
bustle. An absence of fourteen j^^ears had made all 
her brothers and sisters strangers to Emma, but in 
her expectation of Margaret there was more than the 
awkwardness of such an alienation; she had heard 
things which made her dread her return; and the 
day which brought the party to Stanton seemed to 
her the probable conclusion of almost all that had 
been comfortable in the house. 

Eobert Watson was an attorney at Croydon, in 
a good way of business; very well satisfied with 
himself for the same, and for having married the 
only daughter of the attorney to whom he had been 
clerk, with a fortune of six thousand pounds. 
Mrs. Eobert was not less pleased with herself for 
having had that six thousand pounds and for being 


THE WATSONS. 


149 


now in possession of a very smart house in Croy- 
don, where she gave genteel parties and wore fine 
clothes. In her person there was nothing remark- 
able ; her manners were pert and conceited. Mar- 
garet was not without beauty; she had a slight 
pretty figure, and rather wanted countenance than 
good features; but the sharp and anxious expres- 
sion of her face made her beauty in general little 
felt. On meeting her long-absent sister, as on 
every occasion of show, her manner was all affec- 
tion and her voice all gentleness; continual smiles 
and a very slow articulation being her constant 
resource when determined on pleasing. 

She was now ‘‘so delighted to see dear, dear 
Emma,’’ that she could hardly speak a word in a 
minute. 

“I am sure we shall be great friends,” she ob- 
served with much sentiment, as they were sitting 
together. Emma scarcely knew how to answer 
such a proposition, and the manner in which it 
was spoken she could not attempt to equal. Mrs. 
Robert Watson eyed her with much familiar 
curiosity and triumphant compassion: the loss of 
the aunt’s fortune was uppermost in her mind at 
the moment of meeting; and she could not but feel 
how much better it was to be the daughter of a 
gentleman of property in Croydon than the niece 
of an old woman who threw herself away on an 
Irish captain. Robert was carelessly kind, as 
became a prosperous man and a brother; more 
intent on settling with the post-boy, inveighing 
against the exorbitant advance in posting, and 
pondering over a doubtful half-crown, than on 


150 


THE WATSONS 


welcoming a sister who was no longer likely to 
have any property for him to get the direction of. 

‘‘Your road through the village is infamous, 
Elizabeth,’’ said he; “worse than ever it was. 
By Heaven! I would indict it if I lived near you. 
Who is surveyor now? ” 

There was a little niece at Croydon to he fondly 
inquired after by the kind-hearted Elizabeth, who 
regretted very much her not being of the party. 

“You are very good,” replied her mother, 
“ and I assure you it went very hard with Augusta 
to have us come away without her. I was forced 
to say we were only going to church, and promise 
to come back for her directly. But you know it 
would not do to bring her without her maid, and 
I am as particular as ever in having her properly 
attended to.” 

“Sweet little darling!” cried Margaret. “It 
quite broke my heart to leave her.” 

“ Then why was you in such a hurry to run 
away from her ?” cried Mrs. Bobert. “You are 
a sad, shabby girl. I have been quarrelling with 
you all the way we came, have not I? Such a 
visit as this I never heard of! You know how 
glad we are to have any of you with us, if it be for 
months together; and I am sorry (with a witty 
smile) we have not been able to make Croydon 
agreeable this autumn.” 

“My dearest Jane, do not overpower me with 
your raillery. You know what inducements I had 
to bring me home. Spare me, I entreat you. I 
am no match for your arch sallies.” 

“ Well, I only beg you will not set your neigh- 


THE WATSONS. 


151 


bors against the place. Perhaps Emma may he 
tempted to go back with us and stay till Christ- 
mas, if you don’t put in your word.” 

Emma was greatly obliged. I assure you we 
have very good society at Croydon. I do not much 
attend the halls, they are rather too mixed; but 
our parties are very select and good. I had seven 
tables last week in my drawing-room.” 

Are you fond of the country? How do you like 
Stanton?” 

‘‘Very much,” replied Emma, who thought a 
comprehensive answer most to the purpose. She 
saw that her sister-in-law despised her immedi- 
ately. Mrs. Robert Watson was indeed wonder- 
ing what sort of a home Emma could possibly hav 
been used to in Shropshire, and setting it down as 
certain that the aunt could never have had six 
thousand pounds. 

“How charming Emma is,” whispered Margaret 
to Mrs. Robert, in her most languishing tone. 
Emma was quite distressed by such behavior; and 
she did not like it better when she heard Margaret 
five minutes afterwards say to Elizabeth in a 
sharp, quick accent, totally unlike the first, 
“Have you heard from Pen since she went to 
Chichester? I had a letter the other day. I don’t 
find she is likely to make anything of it. I fancy 
she ’ll come back ‘ Miss Penelope,’ as she went.” 

Such she feared would be Margaret’s common 
voice when the novelty of her own appearance were 
over; the tone of artificial sensibility was not 
recommended by the idea. The ladies were invited 
upstairs to prepare for dinner. 


152 


THE WATSONS. 


hope you will find things tolerably comfort- 
able, Jane,'’ said Elizabeth, as she opened the 
door of the spare bedchamber. 

<^My good creature," replied Jane, ^^use no 
ceremony with me, I entreat you. I am one of 
those who always take things as they find them. 
I hope I can put up with a small apartment for 
two or three nights without making a piece of 
work. I always wish to be treated quite en 
famille when I come to see you. And now I do 
hope you have not been getting a great dinner for 
us. Remember we never eat suppers." 

suppose," said Margaret, rather quickly to 
Emma, ^^you and I are to be together; Elizabeth 
always takes care to have a room to herself." 

‘^No. Elizabeth gives me half hers." 

^^Oh! " in a softened voice, and rather mortified 
to find that she was not ill-used. 

am sorry I am not to have the pleasure of 
your company, especially as it makes me nervous 
to be much alone." 

Emma was the first of the females in the par- 
lor again; on entering it she found her brother 
alone. 

So Emma," said he, you are quite a stranger 
at home. It must seem odd enough for you to be 
here. A pretty piece of work your Aunt Turner 
has made of it! Heaven! a woman should 
never be trusted with money. I alwa3'’s said she 
ought to have settled something on you, as soon as 
her husband died." 

^^But that would have been trusting me with 
money," replied Emma; “and I am a woman too." 


THE WATSONS. 


153 


It might have been secured to your future use, 
without your having any power over it now. 
What a blow it must have been upon you ! To find 
yourself, instead of heiress of 8,000Z. or 9,000^., 
sent back a weight upon your family, without a 
sixpence. I hope the old woman will smart for 
it.’^ 

^^Do not speak disrespectfully of her; she was 
very good to me, and if she has made an imprudent 
choice, she will suffer more from it herself than 
I can possibly do.’’ 

I do not mean to distress you, but you know 
everybody must think her an old fool. I thought 
Turner had been reckoned an extraordinarily sen- 
sible, clever man. How the devil came he to make 
such a will ? ” 

My uncle’s sense is not at all impeached in 
my opinion by his attachment to my aunt. She 
had been an excellent wife to him. The most 
liberal and enlightened minds are always the most 
confiding. The event has been unfortunate; but 
my uncle’s memory is, if possible, endeared to me 
by such a proof of tender respect for my aunt.” 

That ’s odd sort of talking. He might have pro- 
vided decently for his widow, without leaving 
everything that he had to dispose of, or any part 
of it, at her mercy.” 

^^My aunt may have erred,” said Emma, 
warmly; ^^she has erred, but my uncle’s con- 
duct was faultless: I was her own niece, and he 
left to her the power of providing for me.” 

^^But unluckily she has left the pleasure of 
providing for you to your father, and without the 


154 


THE WATSONS. 


power. That the long and short of the business. 
AJter keeping you at a distance from your family 
for such a length of time as must do away all 
natural affection among us, and breeding jmu up 
(I suppose) in a superior style, you are returned 
upon their hands without a sixpence.’^ 

“You know,’’ replied Emma, struggling with 
her tears, “my uncle’s melancholy state of health. 
He was a greater invalid than my father. He 
could not leave home.” 

I do not mean to make you crj^,” said Robert, 
rather softened, — and after a short silence, by way 
of changing the subject, he added: “I am just 
come from my father’s room; he seems very in- 
different. It will be a sad break up when he 
dies. Pity you can none of you get married! 
You must come to Croydon as well as the rest, 
and see what you can do there. I believe if 
Margaret had had a thousand or fifteen hundred 
pounds, there was a young man who would have 
thought of her.” 

Emma was glad when they were joined by the 
others ; it was better to look at her sister-in-law’s 
finery than listen to Robert, who had equally 
irritated and grieved her. Mrs. Robert, exactly as 
smart as she had been at her own party, came in 
with apologies for her dress. 

“ I would not make you wait,” said she; “ so 1 
put on the first thing I met with. I am afraid I 
am a sad figure. My dear Mr. W. (addressing her 
husband), you have not put any fresh powder in 
your hair.” 

“No, I do not intend it. I think there is 


THE WATSONS. 


155 


powder enough in my hair for my wife and 
sisters.” 

^‘Indeed, you ought to make some alteration in 
your dress before dinner when you are out visiting, 
though you do not at home.’’ 

Nonsense.” 

^‘It is very odd jmu do not like to do what other 
gentlemen do. Mr. Marshall and Mr. Hemming 
change their dress every day of their lives before 
dinner. And what was the use of my putting up 
your last new coat, if you are never to wear it ? ” 

Ho be satisfied with being fine yourself, and 
leave your husband alone.” 

To put an end to this altercation and soften the 
evident vexation of her sister-in-law, Emma (though 
in no spirits to make such nonsense easy), he 
gan to admire her gown. It produced immediate 
complacency. 

Ho you like it?” said she. ^‘lam very 
happy. It has been excessively admired; hut 
sometimes I think the pattern too large. I shall 
wear one to-morrow which I think you will prefer 
to this. Have you seen the one I gave Margaret? ” 

Hinner came, and except when Mrs. Kohert 
looked at her husband’s head, she continued gay 
and flippant, chiding Elizabeth for the profusion 
on the table, and absolutely protesting against the 
entrance of the roast turkey, which formed the only 
exception to ^^You see your dinner.” I do beg 
and entreat that no turkey may be seen to-day. I 
am really frightened out of my wits with the 
number of dishes we have already. Let us have 
no turkey, I beseech you.” 


156 


THE WATSONS. 


dear,’^ replied Elizabeth, ^^the turkey ia 
roasted, and it may just as well come in as stay in 
the kitchen. Besides, if it is cut, I am in hopes 
my father may be tempted to eat a bit, for it is 
rather a favorite dish.’^ 

You may have it in, my dear; but I assure you 
I sha’n’t touch it.’^ 

Mr. Watson had not been well enough to join 
the party at dinner, but was prevailed on to come 
down and drink tea with them. 

^‘1 wish he may be able to have a game of cards, 
to-night,” said Elizabeth to Mrs. Bobert, after 
seeing her father comfortably seated in his arm- 
chair. 

Not on my account, my dear, I beg. You 
know I am no card-player. I think a snug chat 
infinitely better. I always say cards are very well 
sometimes to break a formal circle, but one never 
wants them among friends.” 

I was thinking of it’s being something to 
amuse my father,” said Elizabeth, ‘‘if it was not 
disagreeable to you. He says his head won’t bear 
wdiist, but perhaps if we make a round game he 
may be tempted to sit down with us.” 

“By all means, my dear creature, I am quite at 
your service; only do not oblige me to choose the 
game, that’s all. Speculation is the only round 
game at Croydon now, but I can play anything. 
When there is only one or two of you at home, you 
must be quite at a loss to amuse him. Why do you 
not get him to play at cribbage? Margaret and I 
have played at cribbage most nights that we have 
not been engaged.” 


THE WATSONS. 


157 


A sound like a distant carriage was at this 
moment caught: everybody listened; it became 
more decided; it certainly drew nearer. It was 
an unusual sound for Stanton at any time of the 
day, for the village was on no very public road, 
and contained no gentleman’s family but the 
rector’s. The wheels rapidly approached; in two 
minutes the general expectation was answered; 
they stopped beyond a doubt at the garden-gate of 
the parsonage. Who could it he? It was cer- 
tainly a postchaise. Penelope was the only creat- 
ure to be thought of; she might perhaps have met 
with some unexpected opportunity of returning. 
A pause of suspense ensued. Steps were dis- 
tinguished along the paved footway, which led 
under the window of the house to the front door, 
and then within the passage. They were the 
steps of a man. It could not be Penelope. It 
must be Samuel. The door opened, and displayed 
Tom Musgrave in the wrap of a traveller. He 
had been in London, and was now on his way 
home, and he had come half-a-mile out of his 
road merely to call for ten minutes at Stanton. 
He loved to take people by surprise with sudden 
visits at extraordinary seasons, and, in the pres- 
ent instance, he had the additional motive of being 
able to tell the Miss Watsons, whom he depended 
on finding sitting quietly employed after tea, 
that he was going home to an eight-o’clock 
dinner. 

As it happened, he did not give more sui*prise 
than he received, when, instead of being shown 
into the usual little sitting-room, the door of th© 


158 


THE WATSONS. 


best parlor (a foot larger each way than the other) 
was thrown open, and he beheld a circle of smart 
people whom he could not immediately recognize, 
arranged with all the honors of visiting round 
the fire, and Miss Watson seated at the best 
Pembroke table, with the best tea-things before 
her. He stood a few seconds in silent amazement. 

Musgrave,’^ ejaculated Margaret, in a tender 
voice. He recollected himself, and came forward, 
delighted to find such a circle of friends, and 
blessing his good fortune for the unlooked-for 
indulgence. He shook hands with Kobert, bowed 
and smiled to the ladies, and did everything very 
prettily; but as to any particularity of address or 
emotion towards Margaret, Emma, who closely 
observed him, perceived nothing that did not 
justify Elizabeth’s opinion, though Margaret’s 
modest smiles imported that she meant to take 
the visit to herself. He was persuaded without 
much difficulty to throw off his great-coat and 
drink tea with them. For “whether he dined at 
eight or nine,” as he observed, “was a matter of 
very little consequence; ” and without seeming 
to seek, he did not turn away from the chair close 
by Margaret, which she was assiduous in provid- 
ing him. She had thus secured him from her 
sisters, but it was not immediately in her power 
to preserve him from her brother’s claims; for as 
he came avowedly from London, and had left it 
only four hours ago, the last current report as to 
public news, and the general opinion of the day, 
must be understood before Kobert could let his 
attention be yielded to the less rational and im- 


THE WATSONS. 


159 


portant demands of the women. At last, however, 
he was at liberty to hear Margaret’s soft address, 
as she spoke her fears of his having had a most 
terrible cold, dark, dreadful journey. 

‘‘Indeed, you should not have set out so 
late.” 

“I could not he earlier,” he replied. “I was 
detained chatting at the Bedford by a friend. All 
hours are alike to me. How long have you been 
in the country. Miss Margaret?” 

“We only came this morning; my kind brother 
and sister brought me home this very morning. 
’T is singular, — is it not? ” 

“You were gone a great while, were not you? 
A fortnight, I suppose ?” 

“ You may call a fortnight a great while, Mr. 
Musgrave,” said Mrs. Bobert, sharply; “but we 
think a month very little. I assure you we 
bring her home at the end of a month much 
against our will.” 

“A month! Have you really been gone a 
month? ’T is amazing how time flies.” 

“You may imagine,” said Margaret, in a sort 
of whisper, “what are my sensations in finding 
myself once more at Stanton; you know what a 
sad visitor I make. And I was so excessively 
impatient to see Emma; I dreaded the meeting, 
and at the same time longed for it. Do you not 
comprehend the sort of feeling? ” 

“Not at all,” cried he, aloud: “I could never 
dread a meeting with Miss Emma Watson, or any 
of her sisters.” 

It was lucky that he added that finish. 


160 


THE WATSONS. 


Were you speaking to me? said Emma, who 
had caught her own name. 

^^Not absolutely, he answered; ‘^but I was 
thinking of you, as many at a greater distance 
are probably doing at this moment. Fine open 
weather. Miss Emma, — charming season for 
hunting.’’ 

^^Emma is delightful, is not she?” whispered 
Margaret; ‘‘I have found her more than answer 
my warmest hopes. Did you ever see anything 
more perfectly beautiful? I think even you must 
be a convert to a brown complexion.” 

He hesitated. Margaret was fair herself, and 
he did not particularly want to compliment 
her; but Miss Osborne and Miss Carr were 
likewise fair, and his devotion to them carried 
the day. 

^^Your sister’s complexion,” said he, at last, 
^^is as fine as a dark complexion can be; but I 
still profess my preference of a white skin. You 
have seen Miss Osborne? She is my model for a 
truly feminine complexion, and she is very fair.” 

‘^Is she fairer than me?” 

Tom made no reply. ^‘Upon my honor, 
ladies,” said he, giving a glance over his own 
person, am highly indebted to your conde- 
scension for admitting me in such dishabille into 
your drawing-room. I really did not consider how 
unfit I was to be here, or I hope I should have 
kept my distance. Lady Osborne would tell me 
that I was growing as careless as her son if she 
saw me in this condition.” 

The ladies were not wanting in civil returns, and 


THE WATSONS. 161 

Robert Watson, stealing a view of his own head in 
an opposite glass, said with equal civility, — 

‘‘You cannot he more in dishabille than myself. 
We got here so late that I had not time even to put 
a little fresh powder into my hair.’’ 

Emma could not help entering into what she sup- 
posed her sister-in-law’s feelings at the moment. 

When the tea-things were removed, Tom began 
to talk of his carriage; but the old card-table being 
set out, and the fish and counters, with a tolerably 
clean pack brought forward from the buffet by 
Miss Watson, the general voice was so urgent with 
him to join their party that he agreed to allow him- 
self another quarter of an hour. Even Emma was 
pleased that he would stay, for she was beginning 
to feel that a family party might be the worst of 
all parties; and the others were delighted. 

“What’s your game?” cried he, as they stood 
round the table. 

“Speculation, I believe,” said Elizabeth. “My 
sister recommends it, and I fancy we all like it. I 
know you do, Tom.” 

“ It is the only round game played at Croydon 
now,” said Mrs. Robert; “ we never think of any 
other. I am glad it is a favorite with you.” 

“ Oh, me! ” said Tom. “Whatever you decide 
on will be a favorite with me. I have had some 
pleasant hours at speculation in my time; but I 
have not been in the way of it for a long while. 
Vingt-un is the game at Osborne Castle. I have 
played nothing but vingt-un of late. You would 
be astonished to hear the noise we make there — ■ 
the fine old lofty drawing-room rings again. Lady 
11 


162 


THE WATSONS. 


Osborne sometimes declares she cannot hear herself 
speak. Lord Osborne enjoj^’s it famously, and he 
makes the best dealer without exception that I ever 
beheld, — such quickness and spirit, he lets nobody 
dream over their cards. I wish you could see him 
overdraw himself on both his own cards. It is 
worth anything in the world! 

‘‘Dear me! ’’ cried Margaret, “why should not 
we play vingt-un? I think it is a much better 
game than speculation. I cannot say I am very 
fond of speculation.’^ 

Mrs. K-obert offered not another word in support 
of the game. She was quite vanquished, and the 
fashions of Osborne Castle carried it over the 
fashions of Croydon. 

“Do you see much of the parsonage family at 
the castle, Mr. Musgrave? ” said Emma, as they 
were taking their seats. 

“Oh yes; they are almost always there. Mrs. 
Blake is a nice little good-humored woman; she 
and I are sworn friends ; and Howard ’s a very gen- 
tlemanlike, good sort of fellow. You are not for- 
gotten, I assure you, by any of the party. I fancy 
you must have a little cheek-glowing now and 
then, Miss Emma. Were not you rather warm last 
Saturday about nine or ten o’clock in the evening? 
I will tell you how it was, — I see you are dying 
to know. Says Howard to Lord Osborne — ” 

At this interesting moment he was called on by 
the others to regulate the game, and determine 
some disputable point; and his attention was so to- 
tally engaged in the business, and afterward by 
the course of the game, as never to revert to what 


THE WATSONS. 


163 


he had been saying before; and Emma, though 
suffering a good deal from curiosity, dared not re- 
mind him. 

He proved a very useful addition at their table. 
Without him it would have been a party of such very 
near relations as could have felt little interest, and 
perhaps maintained little complaisance; but his 
presence gave variety and secured good manners. 
He was, in fact, excellently qualified to shine at a 
round game, and few situations made him appear 
to greater advantage. He played with spirit, and 
had a great deal to say; and, though no wit him- 
tself, could sometimes make use of the wit of an 
absent friend, and had a lively way of retailing a 
common-place or saying a mere nothing, that had 
great effect at a card-table. The ways and good 
jokes of Osborne Castle were now added to his or- 
dinary means of entertainment. He repeated the 
smart sayings of one lady, detailed the oversights 
of another, and indulged them even with a copy of 
Lord Osborneks overdrawing himself on both cards. 

The clock struck nine while he was thus agree- 
ably occupied; and when Nanny came in with her 
master^s basin of gruel, he had the pleasure of ob- 
serving to Mr. Watson that he should leave him 
at supper while he went home to dinner himself. 
The carriage was ordered to the door, and no en- 
treaties for his staying longer could now avail; for 
he well knew that if he stayed he would have 
to sit down to supper in less than ten minutes, 
which to a man whose heart had been long fixed on 
calling his next meal a dinner, was quite insup- 
portable. On finding him determined to go, Maiv 


164 


THE WATSONS. 


garet began to wink and nod at Elizabeth to ask 
him to dinner for the following day, and Elizabeth 
at last, not able to resist hints which her own hos- 
pitable social temper more than half seconded, 
gave the invitation: Would he give Robert the 
meeting, they should be very happy? 

With the greatest pleasure,’’ was his first re- 
ply. In a moment afterwards, ‘^That is, if I can 
possibly get here in time; but I shoot with Lord 
Osborne, and therefore must not engage. You 
will not think of me unless you see me.” And so 
he departed, delighted in the uncertainty in which 
he had left it. 

Margaret, in the joy of her heart, under circum- 
stances which she chose to consider as peculiarly 
propitious, would willingly have made a confidante 
of Emma when they were alone for a short time the 
next morning, and had proceeded so far as to say, 

The, young man who was here last night, my dear 
Emma, and returns to-day, is more interesting to 
me than perhaps you may be aware; ” but Emma, 
pretending to understand nothing extraordinary in 
the words, made some very inapplicable reply, and 
jumping up, ran away from a subject which was 
odious to her. As Margaret would not allow a 
doubt to be repeated of Musgrave’s coming to din- 
ner, preparations were made for his entertainment 
much exceeding what had been deemed necessary 
the day before; and taking the office of superin- 
tendence entirely from her sister, she was half the 
morning in the kitchen herself, directing and 
scolding. 


THE WATSONS. 


165 


After a great deal of indifferent cooking and 
anxious suspense, however, they were obliged to 
sit down without their guest. Tom Musgrave 
never came; and Margaret was at no pains to con- 
ceal her vexation under the disappointment, or re- 
press the peevishness of her temper. The peace of 
the party for the remainder of that day and the 
whole of the next, which comprised the length of 
Robert and Jane’s visit, was continually invaded 
by her fretful displeasure and querulous attacks. 
Elizabeth was the usual object of both. Margaret 
had just respect enough for her brother’s and 
sister’s opinion to behave properly by them, but 
Elizabeth and the maids could never do right; and 
Emma, whom she seemed no longer to think about, 
found the continuance of the gentle voice beyond 
calculation short. Eager to be as little among 
them as possible, Emma was delighted with the 
alternative of sitting above with her father, and 
warmly entreated to be his constant companion 
each evening; and as Elizabeth loved company of 
any kind too well not to prefer being below at all 
risks ; as she had rather talk of Croydon with Jane, 
with every interruption of Margaret’s perverseness, 
than sit with only her father, who frequently could 
not endure talking at all, — the affair was so set- 
tled, as soon as she could be persuaded to believe it 
no sacrifice on her sister’s part. To Emma the 
change was most acceptable and delightful. Her 
father, if ill, required little more than gentleness 
and silence, and being a man of sense and educa- 
tion, was, if able to converse, a welcome com- 
panion. In his chamber Emma was at peace from 


166 


THE WATSONS. 


the dreadful mortificatioiis of unequal society and 
family discord; from the immediate endurance of 
hard-hearted prosperity, low-minded conceit, and 
wrong-headed folly, engrafted on an untoward dis- 
position. She still suffered from them in the con- 
templation of their existence, in memory and in 
prospect, hut for the moment she ceased to he tor- 
tured by their effects. She was at leisure; she 
could read and think, though her situation was 
hardly such as to make reflection very soothing. 
The evils arising from the loss of her uncle were 
neither trifling nor likely to lessen; and when 
thought had been freely indulged in contrasting 
the past and the present, the employment of mind 
and dissipation of unpleasant ideas, which only 
reading could produce, made her thankfully turn 
to a hook. 

The change in her home society and style of life, 
in consequence of the death of one friend and the 
imprudence of another, had indeed been striking. 
From being the first object of hope and solicitude 
to an uncle who had formed her mind with the care 
of a parent, and of tenderness to an aunt whose ami- 
able temper had delighted to give her every indul- 
gence; from being the life and spirit of a house 
where all had been comfort and elegance, and the 
expected heiress of an easy independence, she was 
become of importance to no one, — a burden on those 
whose affections she could not expect, an addition 
in a house already overstocked, surrounded b}'- infe- 
rior minds, with little chance of domestic comfort, 
and as little hope of future support. It was well for 
her that she was naturally cheerful, for the change 


THE WATSONS. 167 

had been such as might have plunged weak spirits 
in despondence. 

She was very much pressed by Robert and Jane 
to return with them to Croydon, and had some diffi- 
culty in getting a refusal accepted, as they thought 
too highly of their own kindness and situation to 
suppose the offier could appear in less advantageous 
light to anybody else. Elizabeth gave them her 
interest, though evidently against her own, in pri- 
vately urging Emma to go. 

‘^You do not know what you refuse, Emma,’’ 
said she, ‘‘nor what you have to bear at home. I 
would advise you by all means to accept the invita- 
tion ; there is always something lively going on at 
Croydon. You will be in company almost every 
day, and Robert and Jane will be very kind to you. 
As for me, I shall be no worse off without you than 
I have been used to be 5 but poor Margaret’s disa- 
greeable ways are new to you, and they would vex 
you more than you think for, if you stay at home.” 

Emma was of course uninfluenced, except to 
greater esteem for Elizabeth, by such representa- 
tions, and the visitors departed without her. 


When the author’s sister, Cassandra, showed the 
manuscript of this work to some of her nieces, she 
also told them something of the intended story; for 
with this dear sister — though, I believe, with no 
one else — Jane seems to have talked freely of any 
work that she might have in hand. Mr. Watson 
was soon to die; and Emma to become dependent 


168 


THE WATSONS. 


for a home on her narrow-minded sister-in-law and 
brother. She was to decline an offer of marriage 
from Lord Osborne, and much of the interest of the 
tale was to arise from Lady Osborne’s love for Mr. 
Howard, and his counter affection for Emma, whom 
he was finally to marry. 


A ME MO IE. 


He knew of no one but himself who was incKned to the 
work. This is no uncommon motive. A man sees something 
to be done, knows of no one who will do it but himself, and 
so is driven to the enterprise.” 


Helps’s Life of Columbus, ch. i. 


PREFACE. 


The Memoir of my aunt, Jane Austen, has 
been received with more favor than I had ventured 
to expect. The notices taken of it in the periodi- 
cal press, as well as letters addressed to me by 
many with whom I am not personally acquainted, 
show that an unabated interest is still taken in 
every particular that can he told about her. I am 
thus encouraged not only to offer a Second Edition 
of the Memoir, but also to enlarge it with some 
additional matter which I might have scrupled to 
intrude on the public if they had not thus seemed 
to call for it. In the present Edition, the narra- 
tive is somewhat enlarged, and a few more letters 
are added; with a short specimen of her childish 
stories. The cancelled chapter of Persuasion 
is given, in compliance with wishes both publicly 
and privately expressed. A fragment of a story 
entitled ^‘The Watsons is printed; and extracts 
are given from a novel which she had begun a few 
months before her death; but the chief addition is 
a short tale, never before published, called ^^Lady 
Susan. I regret that the little which I have 


172 


PREFACE. 


been able to add could not appear in my First 
Edition; as much of it was either unknown to me, 
or not at my command, when I first published; 
and I hope that I may claim some indulgent 
allowance for the difficulty of recovering little 
facts and feelings which had been merged half a 
century deep in oblivion. 



A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


CHAPTER X. 

Introductory Remarks — Birth of Jane Austen — Her 
Family Connections — Their Influence on her 
Writings. 

RE than half a century has passed away 
since I, the youngest of the mourners,' 
attended the funeral of my dear aunt 
Jane in Winchester Cathedral; and 
now, in my old age, I am asked whether my 
memory will serve to rescue from oblivion any 
events of her life or any traits of her character to 
satisfy the inquiries of a generation of readers who 
have been born since she died. Of events her life 
was singularly barren : few changes and no great 
crisis ever broke the smooth current of its course. 
Even her fame may be said to have been posthu- 
mous : it did not attain to any vigorous life till she 
had ceased to exist. Her talents did not introduce 

1 I went to represent my father, who was too unwell to 
attend himself, and thus I was the only one of my generation 
present. 



174 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


her to the notice of other writers, or connect her 
with the literary world, or in any degree pierce 
through the obscurity of her domestic retirement. 
I have therefore scarcely any materials for a de- 
tailed life of my aunt; but I have a distinct recol- 
lection of her person and character; and perhaps 
many may take an interest in a delineation, if any 
such can he drawn, of that prolific mind whence 
sprung the Dashwoods and Bennets, the Bertrams 
and Woodhouses, the Thorpes and Musgroves, who 
have been admitted as familiar guests to the fire- 
sides of so many families, and are known there as 
individually and intimately as if they were living 
neighbors. Many may care to know whether the 
moral rectitude, the correct taste, and the warm 
affections with which she invested her ideal char- 
acters, were really existing in the native source 
w’hence those ideas flowed, and were actually ex- 
hibited by her in the various relations of life. I 
can indeed bear witness that there was scarcely a 
charm in her most delightful characters that was 
not a true reflection of her own sweet temper and 
loving heart. I was young when we lost her ; but 
the impressions made on the young are deep, and 
though in the course of fifty years I have forgotten 
much, T have not forgotten that ‘‘Aunt Jane’’ 
was the delight of all her nephews and nieces. 
We did not think of her as being clever, still less 
as being famous; but we valued her as one always 
kind, sympathizing, and amusing. To all this I 
am a living witness, but whether I can sketch out 
such a faint outline of this excellence as shall be 
perceptible to others may be reasonably doubted. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


175 


Aided, however, by a few survivors^ who knew her, 
I will not refuse to make the attempt. I am the 
more inclined to undertake the task from a convic- 
tion that, however little I may have to tell, no one 
else is left who could tell so much of her. 

Jane Austen was horn on December 16, 1775, at 
the Parsonage House of Steventon in Hampshire. 
Her father, the Kev. George Austen, was of a 
family long established in the neighborhood of 
Tenterden and Sevenoaks in Kent. T believe that 
early in the seventeenth century they were cloth- 
iers. Hasted, in his History of Kent, saj^s: The 
clothing business was exercised by persons who 
possessed most of the landed property in the 
Weald, insomuch that almost all the ancient 
families of these parts, now of large estates and 
genteel rank in life, and some of them ennobled by 
titles, are sprung from ancestors who have used 
this great staple manufacture, now almost unknown 
here.^’ In his list of these families Hasted places 
the Austens, and he adds that these clothiers 

were usually called the Gray Coats of Kent; and 
were a body so numerous and united that at county 
elections whoever had their vote and interest was 

A My chief assistants have been my sisters, Mrs. B. Lcfroy 
and Miss Austen, whose recollections of our aunt are, on 
some points, more vivid than my own. I have not only been 
indebted to their memory for facts, but have sometimes used 
their words. Indeed some passages towards the end of the 
work were entirely written by the latter. 

I have also to thank some of my cousins, and especially the 
daughters of Admiral Charles Austen, for the use of letters 
and papers which had passed into their hands, without which 
this Memoir, scanty as it is, could not have been written. 


176 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


almost certain of being elected.^’ The family still 
retains a badge of this origin ; for their livery is of 
that peculiar mixture of light blue and white, 
called Kentish gray, which forms the facings of 
the Kentish militia. 

Mr. George Austen had lost both his parents 
before he was nine years old. He inherited no 
property from them; but was happy in having a 
kind uncle, Mr. Francis Austen, a successful 
lawyer at Tunbridge, the ancestor of the Austens 
of Kippington, who, though he had children of his 
own, yet made liberal provision for his orphan 
nephew. The boy received a good education at 
Tunbridge School, whence he obtained a scholar- 
ship, and subsequently a fellowship, at St. John’s 
College, Oxford. In 1764 he came into possession 
of the two adjoining Kectories of Deane and Ste- 
venton in Hampshire; the former purchased for 
him by his generous uncle Francis, the latter 
given by his cousin, Mr. Knight. This was no 
very gross case of plurality, according to the ideas 
of that time; for the two villages were little more 
than a mile apart, and their united populations 
scarcely amounted to three hundred. In the same 
year he married Cassandra, youngest daughter of 
the Kev. Thomas Leigh, of the family of Leighs 
of Warwickshire, who, having been a fellow of 
All Souls, held the College living of Harpsden, 
near Henley-upon-Thames. Mr. Thomas Leigh 
was a younger brother of Dr. Theophilus Leigh, a 
personage well known at Oxford in his day, and 
his day was not a short one, for he lived to be 
ninety, and held the Mastership of Balliol College 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


177 


for above half a century. He was a man more 
famous for his sayings than his doings, overflowing 
with puns and witticisms and sharp retorts; but 
his most serious joke was his practical one of 
living much longer than had been expected or in- 
tended. He was a fellow of Corpus, and the story 
is that the Balliol men, unable to agree in elect- 
ing one of their own number to the Mastership, 
chose him, partly under the idea that he was in 
weak health and likely soon to cause another 
vacancy. It was afterwards said that his long in- 
cumbency had been a judgment on the Society for 
having elected an Out-College-Man ^ I imagine 
that the front of Balliol towards Broad Street 
which has recently been pulled down must have 
been built, or at least restored, while he was 
Master, for the Leigh arms were placed under the 
cornice at the corner nearest to Trinity gates. 
The beautiful building lately erected has destroyed 
this record, and thus ‘^monuments themselves 
memorials need.^’ 

His fame for witty and agreeable conversation 
extended -beyond the bounds of the University. 
Mrs. Thrale, in a letter to Dr. Johnson, writes 
thus: ‘^Are you acquainted with Dr. Leigh, the 
Master of Balliol College, and are you not de- 
lighted with his gayety of manners and youthful 
vivacity, now that he is eighty-six years of age? 

1 There seems to have been some doubt as to the validity 
of this election ; for Hearne says that it was referred to the 
Visitor, who confirmed it. (Hearne’s “ Diaries,” v. 2.) 

2 Mrs. Thrale writes Dr. Lee, but there can be no doubt of 
the identity of person. 


12 


178 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


I never heard a more perfect or excellent pun than 
his, when some one told him how, in a late dispute 
among the Privy Councillors, the Lord Chancellor 
struck the table with such violence that he split it. 
‘‘NTo, no, no,’’ replied the Master; can hardly 
persuade myself that he the table, though I 
believe he divided the Board.^^ 

Some of his sayings of course survive in family 
tradition. He was once calling on a gentleman 
notorious for never opening a hook. Who took him 
into a room overlooking the Bath Koad; which was 
then a great thoroughfare for travellers of every 
class, saying rather pompously, “This, Doctor, I 
call my study.” The Doctor, glancing his eye 
round the room, in which no hooks were to he 
seen, replied, “And very well named too, sir, for 
you know Pope tells us, ‘The proper study of 
mankind is Man.^ ” When my father went to 
Oxford, he was honored with an invitation to dine 
with this dignified cousin. Being a raw under- 
graduate, unaccustomed to the habits of the Uni- 
versity, he was about to take off his gown, as if it 
were a great-coat, when the old man, then consid- 
erahl}^ turned eighty, said, with a grim smile, 
“Young man, you need not strip: we are not 
going to fight.” This humor remained in him so 
strongly to the last that he might almost have 
supplied Pope with another instance of “ the rul- 
ing passion strong in death; ” for only three days 
before he expired, being told that an old acquaint- 
ance was lately married, having recovered from a 
long illness by eating eggs, and that the wits said 
that he had been egged on to matrimony, he im- 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


179 


mediately trumped the joke, saying, Then may 
the yoke sit easy on him.’’ I do not know from 
what common ancestor the Master of Balliol and 
his great-niece, Jane Austen, with some others of 
the family, may have derived the keen sense of hu- 
mor which they certainly possessed. 

Mr. and Mrs. George Austen resided first at 
Deane, but removed in 1771 to Steventon, which 
was their residence for about thirty years. They 
commenced their married life with the charge of a 
little child, a son of the celebrated Warren Hast- 
ings, who had been committed to the care of Mr. 
Austen before his marriage, probably through the 
influence of his sister, Mrs. Hancock, whose hus- 
band at that time held some office under Hastings 
in India. Mr. Gleig, in his ^^Life of Hastings,” 
says that his son George, the offspring of his first 
marriage, was sent to England in 1761 for his edu- 
cation, but that he had never been able to ascer- 
tain to whom this precious charge was intrusted, 
nor what became of him. I am able to state, from 
family tradition, that he died young, of what was 
then called putrid sore throat; and that Mrs. 
Austen had become so much attached to him that 
she always declared that his death had been as 
great a grief to her as if he had been a child of 
her own. 

About this time, the grandfather of Mary 
Russell Mitford, Dr. Russell, was rector of the 
adjoining parish of Ashe; so that the parents of 
two popular female writers must have been inti- 
mately acquainted with each other. 

As my subject carries me back about a hundred 


180 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


years, it will afford occasions for observing many 
changes gradually effected in the manners and 
habits of society, which I may think it worth 
while to mention. They may be little things ; but 
time gives a certain importance even to trifles, as 
it imparts a peculiar flavor to wine. The most 
ordinary articles of domestic life are looked on 
with some interest, if they are brought to light 
after being long buried; and we feel a natural 
curiosity to know what was done and said by our 
forefathers, even though it may be nothing wiser 
or better than what we are daily doing or saying 
ourselves. Some of this generation may be little 
aware how many conveniences, now considered to 
be necessaries and matters of course, were un- 
known to their grandfathers and grandmothers. 
The lane between Deane and Steventon has long 
been as smooth as the best turnpike road; but 
when the family removed from the one residence 
to the other in 1771, it was a mere cart track, so 
cut up by deep ruts as to be impassable for a light 
carriage. Mrs. Austen, who was not then in 
strong health, performed the short journey on a 
feather-bed, placed upon some soft articles of furni- 
ture in the wagon which held their household 
goods. In those days it was not unusual to set 
men to work with shovel and pickaxe to fill up ruts 
and holes in roads seldom used by carriages, on 
such special occasions as a funeral or a wedding. 
Ignorance and coarseness of language also were 
still lingering even upon higher levels of society 
than might have been expected to retain such 
mists. About this time, a neighboring squire, a 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


181 


man of many acres, referred the following difficulty 
to Mr. Austen’s decision: ^‘You know all about 
these sort of things. Do tell us. Is Paris in 
Prance, or Prance in Paris? for my wife has been 
disputing with me about it.” The same gentle- 
man, narrating some conversation which he had 
heard between the rector and his wife, represented 
the latter as beginning her reply to her husband 
with a round oath; and when his daughter called 
him to task, reminding him that Mrs. Austen 
never swore, he replied, ^^Now, Betty, why do 
you pull me up for nothing? that ’s neither here 
nor there ; you know very well that ’s only my way 
of telling the story.” Attention has lately been 
called by a celebrated writer to the inferiority of 
the clergy to the laity of England two centuries 
ago. The charge no doubt is true, if the rural 
clergy are to be compared with that higher section 
of country gentlemen who went into Parliament, 
and mixed in London society, and took the lead in 
their several counties ; but it might be found less 
true if they were to be compared, as in all fairness 
they ought to be, with that lower section with 
whom they usually associated. The smaller landed 
proprietors, who seldom went farther from home 
than their county town, from the squire with his 
thousand acres to the yeoman who cultivated his 
hereditary property of one or two hundred, then 
formed a numerous class, — each the aristocrat of 
his own parish; and there was probably a greater 
difference in manners and refinement between this 
class and that immediately above them than could 
now be found between any two person.^ wko rank 


182 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


as gentlemen. For in the progress of civilization, 
though all orders may make some progress, yet it 
is most perceptible in the lower. It is a process 
of ^‘levelling up;^^ the rear rank ^Mressing up,’’ 
as it w'ere, close to the front rank. When Hamlet 
mentions, as something which he had ^Hor three 
years taken note of,” that ^^the toe of the peasant 
comes so near the heel of the courtier,” it was 
probably intended by Shakspeare as a satire on 
his own times; but it expressed a principle which 
is working at all times in which society makes any 
progress. I believe that a century ago the im- 
provement in most country parishes began with 
the clergy; and that in those days a rector who 
chanced to be a gentleman and a scholar, found 
himself superior to his chief parishioners in infor- 
mation and manners, and became a sort of centre 
of refinement and politeness. 

Mr. Austen was a remarkably good-looking man, 
both in his youth and his old age. During his 
year of office at Oxford he had been called ‘‘the 
handsome Proctor; ” and at Bath, when more than 
seventy years old, he attracted observation by his 
fine features and abundance of snow-white hair. 
Being a good scholar he was able to prepare two of 
his sons for the University, and to direct the 
studies of his other children, whether sons or 
daughters, as well as to increase his income by 
taking pupils. 

In Mrs. Austen also was to be found the germ 
of much of the ability which was concentrated in 
Jane, but of which others of her children had a 
share. She united strong common sense with a 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


183 


lively imagination, and often expressed herself, 
both in writing and in conversation, with epi- 
grammatic force and point. She lived, like many 
of her family, to an advanced age. During the 
last years of her life she endured continual pain, 
not only patiently, but with characteristic cheer- 
fulness. She once said to me, “Ah, my dear, 
you find me just where you left me, — on the sofa. 
I sometimes think that God Almighty must have 
forgotten me; but I dare say he will come for me 
in his own good time.’’ She died and was buried 
at Chawton, January 1827, aged eighty-eight. 

Her own family w^ere so much, and the rest of 
the world so little, to Jane Austen, that some brief 
mention of her brothers and sister is necessary, in 
order to give any idea of the objects which princi- 
pally occupied “her thoughts and filled her heart, 
especially as some of them, from their characters or 
professions in life, may be supposed to have had 
more or less influence on her writings ; though I 
feel some reluctance in bringing before public no- 
tice persons and circumstances essentially private. 

Her eldest brother James, my own father, had, 
when a very young man, at St. John’s College, 
Oxford, been the originator and chief supporter 
of a periodical paper called “The Loiterer,” writ- 
ten somewhat on the plan of the “Spectator” and 
its successors, but nearly confined to subjects con- 
nected with the University. In after life he used 
to speak very slightingly of this early work, which 
he had the better right to do, as, whatever may 
have been the degree of their merits, the best 


184 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


papers bad certainly been written by bimself. He 
was well read in English literature, bad a correct 
taste, and wrote readily and happily, both in prose 
and verse. He was more than ten years older than 
Jane, and bad, I believe, a large share in directing 
her reading and forming her taste. 

Her second brother, Edward, had been a good 
deal separated from the rest of the family, as be 
was early adopted by bis cousin, Mr. Knight, of 
Godmersham Park in Kent, and Chawton House in 
Hampshire; and finally came into possession both 
of the property and the name. But though a good 
deal separated in childhood, they were much to- 
gether in after-life, and Jane gave a large share of 
her affections to him and his children. Mr. Knight 
was not only a very amiable man, kind and indul- 
gent to all connected wdth him, but possessed also 
a spirit of fun and liveliness which made him 
especially delightful to all young people. 

Her third brother, Henry, had great conversa- 
tional powers, and inherited from his father an 
eager and sanguine disposition. He was a very 
entertaining companion, but had perhaps less steadi- 
ness of purpose, certainly less success in life, than 
his brothers. He became a clergyman when mid- 
dle-aged; and an allusion to his sermons will be 
found in one of Jane’s letters. At one time he 
resided in London, and was useful in transacting 
his sister’s business with her publishers. 

Her two youngest brothers, Francis and Charles, 
were sailors during that glorious period of the 
British navy which comprises the close of the last 
and the beginning of the present century, when it 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


185 


was impossible for an officer to be almost always 
afloat, as these brothers were, without seeing ser- 
vice which, in these days, would be considered 
distinguished. Accordingly, they were continually 
engaged in actions of more or less importance, and 
sometimes gained promotion by their success. Both 
rose to the rank of Admiral, and carried out their 
flags to distant stations. 

Francis lived to attain the very summit of his 
profession, — having died, in his ninety-third year, 
G. C.B. and Senior Admiral of the Fleet, in 1865. 
He possessed great firmness of character, with a 
strong sense of duty, whether due from himself 
to others, or from others to himself. He was con- 
sequently a strict disciplinarian; but, as he was 
a very religious man, it was remarked of him (for 
in those days, at least, it was remarkable) that he 
maintained this discipline without ever uttering an 
oath or permitting one in his presence. On one 
occasion, when ashore in a sea-side town, he was 
spoken of as ^Hhe officer who kneeled at church, 
— a custom which now happily would not be thought 
peculiar. 

Charles was generally serving in frigates or 
sloops, — blockading harbors, driving the ships of 
the enemy ashore, boarding gun-boats, and fre- 
quently’- making small prizes. At one time he was 
absent from England on such services for seven 
years together. In later life he commanded the 
^‘Bellerophon ’’ at the bombardment of St. Jean 
d’ Acre in 1840. In 1850 he went out in the Hast- 
ings,’’ in command of the East India and China sta- 
tion; but on the breaking out of the Burmese war 


186 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


he transferred his flag to a steam sloop, for the pur- 
pose of getting up the shallow waters of the Irra- 
waddy, on hoard of which he died of cholera, in 
1852, in the seventy-fourth year of his age. His 
sweet temper and affectionate disposition, in which 
he resembled his sister Jane, had secured to him 
an unusual portion of attachment, not only from 
his own family, but from all the officers and com- 
mon sailors who served under him. One who was 
with him at his death has left this record of him ; 
‘‘Our good Admiral won the hearts of all by his 
gentleness and kindness while he was struggling 
with disease and endeavoring to do his duty as 
Commander-in-chief of the British naval forces in 
these waters. His death was a great grief to the 
whole fleet. I know that I cried bitterly when I 
found he was dead.’’ The Order in Council of the 
Governor-General of India, Lord Dalhousie, ex- 
presses “admiration of the stanch high spirit 
which, notwithstanding his age and previous suf- 
ferings, had led the Admiral to take his part in 
the trying service which closed his career.” 

These two brothers have been dwelt on longer 
than the others, because their honorable career 
accounts for Jane Austen’s partiality for the Navy, 
as well as for the readiness and accuracy with 
which she wrote about it. She was always very 
careful not to meddle with matters which she did 
not thoroughly understand. She never touched up- 
on politics, law, or medicine, — subjects which some 
novel writers have ventured on rather too boldly, 
and have treated, perhaps, with more brilliancy 
than accuracy. But with ships and sailors she 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


187 


felt herself at home, or at least could always trust 
to a brotherly critic to keep her right. I believe 
that no flaw has ever been found in her sea- 
manship, either in Mansfield Park^^ or in 
^‘Persuasion.’’ 

But dearest of all to the heart of Jane was her 
sister Cassandra, about three years her senior. 
Their sisterly affection for each other could 
scarcely be exceeded. Perhaps it began on Jane’s 
side with the feeling of deference natural to a lov- 
ing child towards a kind elder sister. Something 
of this feeling always remained; and even in the 
maturity of her powers, and in the enjoyment of 
increasing success, she would still speak of Cas- 
sandra as of one wiser and better than herself. In 
childhood, when the elder was sent to the school of 
a Mrs. Latournelle, in the Porbury at Beading, 
the younger went with her, not because she was 
thought old enough to profit much by the instruc- 
tion there imparted, but because she would have 
been miserable without her sister; her mother 
observing that, “ if Cassandra were going to have 
her head cut off, Jane would insist on sharing 
her fate.” This attachment was never interrupted 
or weakened. They lived in the same home, and 
shared the same bedroom, till separated by death. 
They were not exactly alike. Cassandra’s was 
the colder and calmer disposition ; she was always 
prudent and well judging, but with less outward 
demonstration of feeling and less sunniness of 
temper than Jane possessed. It was remarked in 
her family that “Cassandra had the merit of hav- 
ing her temper always under command, but that 


188 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


Jane had the happiness of a temper that never re- 
quired to be commanded.’’ When Sense and 
Sensibility” came out, some persons, who knew 
the family slightly, surmised that the two elder 
Miss Dashwoods were intended by the author for 
her sister and herself; but this could not he the 
case. Cassandra’s character might indeed repre- 
sent the sense” of Elinor, hut Jane’s had little 
in common with the sensibility ” of Marianne. 
The young woman who, before the age of twenty, 
could so clearly discern the failings of Marianne 
Dash wood, could hardly have been subject to them 
herself. 

This was the small circle, continually enlarged, 
however, by the increasing families of four of her 
brothers, within which Jane Austen found hei 
wholesome pleasures, duties, and interests, and 
beyond which she went very little into society 
during the last ten years of her life. There was 
so much that was agreeable and attractive in this 
family party that its members may he excused if 
they were inclined to live somewhat too exclu- 
sively within it. They might see in each other 
much to love and esteem, and something to ad- 
mire. The family talk had abundance of spirit 
and vivacity, and was never troubled by disagree- 
ments even in little matters, for it was not their 
habit to dispute or argue with each other; above 
all, there was strong family affection and firm 
union, never to be broken but by death. It can- 
not he doubted that all this had its influence on 
the author in the construction of her stories, in 
which a family party usually supplies the narrow 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


189 


Stage, while the interest is made to revolve round 
a few actors. 

It will be seen also that though her circle of 
society was small, yet she found in her neighbor- 
hood persons of good taste and cultivated minds. 
Her acquaintance, in fact, constituted the very 
class from which she took her imaginary charac- 
ters, ranging from the member of Parliament, or 
large landed proprietor, to the young curate or 
younger midshipman of equally good family; and 
I think that the influence of these early associa- 
tions may he traced in her writings, especially in 
two particulars: first, that she is entirely free 
from the vulgarity, which is so offensive in some 
novels, of dwelling on the outward appendages 
of wealth or rank, as if they were things to which 
the writer was unaccustomed; and, secondly, that 
she deals as little with very low as with very high 
stations in life. She does not go lower than the 
Miss Steeles, Mrs. Elton, and John Thorpe, a peo- 
ple of bad taste and underbred manners, such as 
are actually found sometimes mingling with bet- 
ter society. She has nothing resembling the Brang- 
tons, or Mr. Dubster and his friend Tom Hicks, 
with whom Madame D^Arblay loved to season her 
stories, and to produce striking contrasts to her 
well-bred characters. 


190 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTENS 


CHAPTER IL 


Description op Steventon — Life at Steventon — 
Changes of Habits and Customs in the last 
Century. 

As the first twenty-five years, more than half of 
the brief life of Jane Austen, were spent in the 
parsonage of Steventon, some description of that 
place ought to be given. Steventon is a small 
rural village upon the chalk hills of north Hants, 
situated in a winding valley about seven miles 
from Basingstoke. The South-Western Railway 
crosses it by a short embankment, and, as it 
curves round, presents a good view of it on the 
left-hand to those who are travelling down the 
line, about three miles before entering the tunnel 
under Popham Beacon. It may be known to 
some sportsmen, as lying in one of the best por- 
tions of the Vine Hunt. It is certainly not a 
picturesque countrjq — it presents no grand or 
extensive views ; but the features are small, rather 
plain. The surface continually swells and sinks, 
but the hills are not bold, nor the valleys deep; 
and though it is sufficiently well clothed with 
woods and hedgerows, yet the poverty of the soil 
in most places prevents the timber from attaining 
a large size. Still it has its beauties. The lanes 
wind along in a natural curve, continually fringed 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


191 


with irregular borders of native turf, and lead to 
pleasant nooks and corners. One who knew and 
loved it well very happily expressed its quiet 
charms, when he wrote, — 

True taste is uot fastidious, nor rejects. 

Because they may not come within the rule 
Of composition pure and picturesque, 

Unnumbered simple scenes which fill the leaves 
Of Nature’s sketch-book.” 

Of this somewhat tame country, Steventon, from 
the fall of the ground, and the abundance of its 
timber, is certainly one of the prettiest spots ; yet 
one cannot be surprised that, when Jane’s mother, 
a little before her marriage, was shown the scenery 
of her future home, she should have thought it un- 
attractive, compared with the broad river, the rich 
valley, and the noble hills which she had been 
accustomed to behold at her native home near 
Ilenley-upon-Thames. 

The house itself stood in a shallow valley, sur- 
rounded by sloping meadows, well sprinkled with 
elm trees, at the end of a small village of cottages, 
each well provided with a garden, scattered about 
prettily on either side of the road. It was suffi- 
ciently commodious to hold pupils in addition to a 
growing family, and was in those times consid- 
ered to be above the average of parsonages ; but the 
rooms were finished with less elegance than would 
now be found in the most ordinary dwellings. No 
cornice marked the junction of wall and ceiling; 
while the beams which supported the upper floors 
projected into the rooms below in all their naked 


192 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


simplicity, covered only by a coat of paint or white- 
wash : accordingly it has since been considered un- 
worthy of being the rectory house of a family living, 
and about forty-five years ago it was pulled down for 
the purpose of erecting a new house in a far better 
situation on the opposite side of the valley. 

North of the house, the road from Deane to Pop- 
ham Lane ran at a sufficient distance from the front 
to allow a carriage-drive, through turf and trees. 
On the south side the ground rose gently, and was 
occupied by one of those old-fashioned gardens in 
which vegetables and flowers are combined, flanked 
and protected on the east by one of the thatched 
mud-walls common in that country, and overshad- 
owed by fine elms. Along the upper or southern 
side of this garden ran a terrace of the finest turf, 
which must have been in the writer’s thoughts 
when she described Catherine Morland’s childish 
delight in ‘‘rolling down the green slope at the 
back of the house.” 

But the chief beauty of Steventon consisted in 
its hedgerows. A hedgerow, in that country, does 
not mean a thin, formal line of quickset, but an ir- 
regular border of copse-wood and timber, often wide 
enough to contain within it a winding footpath or 
a rough cart track. Under its shelter the earliest 
primroses, anemones, and wild hyacinths were to 
be found; sometimes, the first bird’s-nest; and, 
now and then, the unwelcome adder. Two such 
hedgerows radiated, as it were, from the parsonage 
garden. One, a continuation of the turf terrace, pro- 
ceeded westward, forming the southern boundary 
of the home meadows j and was formed into a rustic 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


193 


shrubbery, with occasional seats, entitled ^^The 
Wood Walk.^’ The other ran straight up the hill, 
under the name of ‘^The Church Walk,^’ because 
it led to the parish church, as well as to a fine old 
manor-house, of Henry VIII. ’s time, occupied by 
a family named Digweed, who have for more than 
a century rented it, together with the chief farm in 
the parish. The church itself — I speak of it as it 
then was, before the improvements made by the 
present rector — 

“ A little spireless fane, 

Just seen above the woody lane,” 

might have appeared mean and uninteresting to an 
ordinary observer; but the adept in church archi- 
tecture would have known that it must have stood 
there some seven centuries, and would have found 
beauty in the very narrow early English windows, 
as well as in the general proportions of its little 
chancel; while its solitary position, far from the 
hum of the village, and within sight of no habita- 
tion, except a glimpse of the gray manor-house 
through its circling screen of sycamores, has in it 
something solemn and appropriate to the last rest- 
ing-place of the silent dead. Sweet violets, both 
purple and white, grow in abundance beneath its 
south wall. One may imagine for how many cen- 
turies the ancestors of these little flowers have oc- 
cupied that undisturbed, sunny nook, and may 
think how few living families can boast of as an- 
cient a tenure of their land. Large elms protrude 
their rough branches; old hawthorns shed their 
annual blossoms over the graves; and the hollow 
yew-tree must be at least coeval with the church. 

13 


194 A MEMOIR OE JANE AUSTEN. 


But whatever may be the beauties or defects of 
tbe surrounding scenery, tbis was tbe residence of 
Jane Austen for twenty-five years. This was the 
cradle of her genius. These were the first objects 
which inspired her young heart with a sense of the 
beauties of nature. In strolls along those wood- 
walks thick-coming fancies rose in her mind, and 
gradually assumed the forms in which they came 
forth to the world. In that simple church she 
brought them all into subjection to the piety which 
ruled her in life, and supported her in death. 

The home at Steventon must have been, for 
many years, a pleasant and prosperous one. The 
family was unbroken by death, and seldom visited 
by sorrow. Their situation had some peculiar 
advantages beyond those of ordinary rectories. 
Steventon was a family living. Mr. Knight, the 
patron, was also proprietor of nearly the whole 
parish. He never resided there, and consequently 
the rector and his children came to be regarded in 
the neighborhood as a kind of representatives of the 
family. They shared with the principal tenant 
the command of an excellent manor, and enjoyed, 
in this reflected wa3’’, some of the consideration 
usually awarded to landed proprietors. They were 
not rich, but, aided by Mr. Austen^s powers of teach- 
ing, they had enough to afford a good education to 
their sons and daughters, to mix in the best society 
of the neighborhood, and to exercise a liberal hospi- 
tality to their own relations and friends. A car- 
riage and a pair of horses were kept. This might 
imply a higher style of living in our days than it 
■^id in theirs. There were then no assessed taxes. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 195 


The carriage, once bought, entailed little further ex- 
pense; and the horses probably, like Mr. Bennet’s, 
were often employed on farm work. Moreover, it 
should be remembered that a pair of horses in those 
days were almost necessary, if ladies were to move 
about at all; for neither the condition of the roads 
nor the style of carriage-building admitted of any 
comfortable vehicle being drawn by a single horse. 
When one looks at the few specimens still remain- 
ing of coach-building in the last century, it strikes 
one that the chief object of the builders must have 
been to combine the greatest possible weight with 
the least possible amount of accommodation. 

The family lived in close intimacy with two 
cousins, Edward and Jane Cooper, the children of 
Mrs. Austen’s eldest sister, and Dr. Cooper, the 
vicar of Sonning, near Beading. The Coopers 
lived for some years at Bath, which seems to have 
been much frequented in those days by clergymen 
retiring from work. I believe that Cassandra and 
Jane sometimes visited them there, and that Jane 
thus acquired the intimate knowledge of the topog- 
raphy and customs of Bath, which enabled her to 
write ^^Northanger Abbey” long before she re- 
sided there herself. After the death of their own 
parents, the two young Coopers paid long visits at 
Steventon. Edward Cooper did not live undistin- 
guished. When an undergraduate at Oxford, he 
gained the prize for Latin hexameters on Hortus 
Anglicus ” in 1791; and in later life he was 
known by a work on prophecy, called The 
Crisis,” and other religious publications, espe- 
cially for several volumes of Sermons, much 


196 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


preached in many pnlpits in my youth. Jane 
Cooper was married from her uncle’s house at 
Steventon, to Captain, afterwards Sir Thomas, Wil- 
liams, under whom Charles Austen served in 
several ships. She was a dear friend of her name- 
sake, but was fated to become a cause of great 
sorrow to her, for a few years after the marriage 
she was suddenly killed by an accident to her 
carriage. 

There was another cousin closely associated with 
them at Steventon, who must have introduced 
greater variety into the family circle. This was 
the daughter of Mr. Austen’s only sister, Mrs. 
Hancock. This cousin had been educated in 
Paris, and married to a Count de Feuillade, of 
whom I know little more than that he perished by 
the guillotine during the French Revolution. 
Perhaps his chief offence was his rank; but it was 
said that the charge of “incivism,” under which 
he suffered, rested on the fact of his having laid 
down some arable land into pasture, — a sure sign 
of his intention to embari*ass the Republican Gov- 
ernment by producing a famine ! His wife escaped 
through dangers and difficulties to England, was 
received for some time into her uncle’s family, 
and finally married her cousin, Henry Austen. 
During the short peace of Amiens, she and her 
second husband went to France, in the hope of 
recovering some of the Count’s property, and there 
narrowly escaped being included amongst the 
detenus. Orders had been given by Buonaparte’s 
Government to detain all English travellers ; but at 
the post-houses Mrs. Henry Austen gave the neces' 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


197 


sary orders herself, and her French was so perfect 
that she passed everywhere for a native, and her 
husband escaped under this protection. 

She was a clever woman, and higlily accom- 
plished, after the French rather than the English 
mode; and in those days, when intercourse with 
the Continent was long interrupted by war, such 
an element in the society of a country parsonage 
must have been a rare acquisition. The sisters 
may have been more indebted to this cousin than 
to Mrs. La Tournelle’s teaching for the consider- 
able knowledge of French which they possessed. 
She also took the principal parts in the private 
theatricals in which the family several times in- 
dulged, — having their summer theatre in the barn, 
and their winter one within the narrow limits of 
the dining-room, where the number of the audience 
must have been very limited. On these occasions, 
the prologues and epilogues were written by Janets 
eldest brother, and some of them are very vigorous 
and amusing. Jane was only twelve years old at 
the time of the earliest of these representations, 
and not more than fifteen when the last took 
place. She w'as, however, an early observer, and 
it may be reasonably supposed that some of the in- 
cidents and feelings which are so vividly painted 
in the Mansfield Park theatricals are due to her 
recollections of these entertainments. 

Some time before they left Steventon, one great 
affliction came upon the family. Cassandra was 
engaged to be married to a young clergyman. He 
had not sufficient private fortune to permit an 
immediate union; but the engagement was not 


198 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


likely to be a hopeless or a protracted onej for he 
had a prospect of early preferment from a noble- 
man with whom he was connected both by birth 
and by personal friendship. He accompanied this 
friend to the West Indies, as chaplain to his regi- 
ment, and there died of yellow-fever, — to the great 
concern of his friend and patron, who afterwards 
declared that, if he had known of the engagement, 
he would not have permitted him to go out to 
such a climate. This little domestic tragedy 
caused great and lasting grief to the principal 
sufferer, and could not but cast a gloom over the 
whole party. The sympathy of Jane was probably, 
from her age and her peculiar attachment to her 
sister, the deepest of all. 

Of Jane herself I know of no such definite tale 
of love to relate. Her reviewer in the Quar- 
terly, ’’ of January, 1821, observes, concerning the 
attachment of Fanny Price to Edmund Bertram: 

The silence in which this passion is cherished, 
the slender hopes and enjoyments by which it is 
fed, the restlessness and jealousy with which it 
fills a mind naturally active, contented, and un- 
suspicious, the manner in which it tinges every 
event, and every reflection, are painted with a 
vividness and a detail of which we can scarcely 
conceive any one but a female, and we should 
almost add, a female writing from recollection, 
capable.^’ This conjecture, however probable, was 
wide of the mark. The picture was drawn from 
the intuitive perceptions of genius, not from per- 
sonal experience. In no circumstance of her life 
was there any similarity between herself and her 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


199 


heroine in Mansfield Park.’’ She did not indeed 
pass through life without being the object of 
warm affection. In her youth slie had declined 
the addresses of a gentleman who had the recom- 
mendations of good character and connections and 
position in life, — of everything, in fact, except 
the subtle power of touching her heart. There is, 
however, one passage of romance in her history 
with which I am imperfectly acquainted, and to 
which I am unable to assign name or date or 
place, though I have it on sufficient authority. 
Many years after her death, some circumstances 
induced her sister Cassandra to break through her 
habitual reticence and to speak of it. She said 
that, while staying at some seaside place, they be- 
came acquainted with a gentleman whose charm 
of person, mind, and manners was such that Cas- 
sandra thought him worthy to possess and likely 
to win her sister’s love. When they parted, he 
expressed his intention of soon seeing them again; 
and Cassandra felt no doubt as to his motives. But 
they never again met. Within a short time they 
heard of his sudden death. I believe that, if Jane 
ever loved, it was this unnamed gentleman; but 
the acquaintance had been short, and I am unable 
to say whether her feelings were of such a nature 
as to affect her happiness. 

Any description that I might attempt of the 
family life at Steventon, which closed soon after I 
was born, could be little better than a fancy-piece. 
There is no doubt that if we look into the house- 
holds of the clergy and the small gentry of that 
period, we should see some things which would 


200 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


seem strange to us, and should miss many more to 
which we are accustomed. Every hundred years, 
and especially a century like the last, — marked by 
an extraordinary advance in wealth, luxury, and 
refinement of taste, as well as in the mechanical 
arts which embellish our houses, — must produce a 
great change in their aspect. These changes are 
always at work; they are going on now, but so 
silently that we take no note of them. Men soon 
forget the small objects which they leave behind 
them as they drift down the stream of life. As 
Pope says — 

“ Nor does life’s stream for observation stay ; 

It hurries all too fast to mark their way.” 

Important inventions, such as the applications of 
steam, gas, and electricity, may find their places 
in history; but not so the alterations, great as they 
may be, which have taken place in the appearance 
of our dining and drawing rooms. Wlio can now 
record the degrees by which the custom prevalent 
in my youth of asking each other to take wine 
together at dinner became obsolete? Who will be 
able to fix, twenty years hence, the date when our 
dinners began to be carved and handed round by 
servants, instead of smoking before our eyes and 
noses on the table? To record such little matters 
would indeed be ^Ho chronicle small beer.” But, 
in a slight memoir like this, I may be allowed to 
note some of those changes in social habits which 
give a color to history, but which the historian has 
the greatest difficulty in recovering. 

At that time the dinner-table presented a far 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


201 


less splendid appearance than it does now. It was 
appropriated to solid food, rather than to flowers, 
fruits, and decorations. Nor was there much 
glitter of plate upon it; for the early dinner hour 
rendered candlesticks unnecessary, and silver folks 
had not come into general use; while the hroad 
rounded end of the knives indicated the substitute 
generally used instead of them.^ 

The dinners too were more homely, though not 
less plentiful and savory; and the bill of fare in 
one house would not be so like that in another as 
it is now, for family receipts were held in high 
estimation. A grandmother of culinary talent 
could bequeath to her descendant fame for some 
particular dish, and might influence the family 
dinner for many generations. 

“Dos est magna parentium 
Virtus.” 

One house -vwuld pride itself on its ham, another 
on its game-pie, and a third on its superior 

1 The celebrated Beau Brumrael, who was so intimate with 
George IV. as to be able to quarrel with him, was born in 
1771. It is reported that when he was questioned about his 
parents, he replied that it was long since he had heard of 
them, but that he imagined the worthy couple must have cut 
their own throats by that time, because when he last saw 
them they were eating peas with their knives. Yet Brum, 
mel’s father had probably lived in good society, and was 
certainly able to put his son into a fashionable regiment, and to 
leave him 30,000/.2 Raikes believes that he had been Secre- 
tary to Lord North. Thackeray’s idea that he had been a foot- 
man cannot stand against the authority of Raikes, who was 
intimate with the son. 


2 Raikes’s Memoirs, vol. ii. p. 207. 


202 A MEMOIE or JANE AUSTEN. 


furmity, or tansey-pudding. Beer and home-made 
wines, especially mead, were more largely con- 
sumed. Vegetables were less plentiful and less 
various. Potatoes were used, but not so abun- 
dantly as now j and there was an idea they were to 
be eaten only with roast meat. They were novel- 
ties to a tenant^s wife who was entertained at 
Steventon Parsonage, certainly less than a hundred 
years ago; and when Mrs. Austen advised her to 
plant them in her own garden, she replied, ‘‘NTo, 
no; they are very well for you gentry, but they 
must be terribly costly to rear.’^ 

But a still greater difference would be found in 
the furniture of the rooms, which would appear 
to us lamentably scanty. There was a general 
deficiency of carpeting in sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, 
and passages. A pianoforte, or rather a spinnet 
or harpsichord, was by no means a necessary 
appendage. It was to be found only where there 
was a decided taste for music (not so common then 
as now), or in such great houses as would probably 
contain a billiard-table. There would often be 
but one sofa in the house, and that a stiff, angular, 
uncomfortable article. There were no deep easy- 
chairs, nor other appliances for lounging; for to 
lie down, or even to lean back, was a luxury 
permitted only to old persons or invalids. It w^as 
said of a nobleman, a personal friend of George 
III. and a model gentleman of his day, that he 
would have made the tour of Europe without ever 
touching the back of his travelling carriage. 
But perhaps we should be most struck with the 
total absence of those elegant little articles which 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 203 


BOW embellish and encumber our drawing-room 
tables. We should miss the sliding bookcases and 
picture-stands, the letterweighing machines and 
envelope cases, the periodicals and illustrated 
newpapers, — above all, the countless swarm of 
photograph books which now threaten to swallow 
up all space. A small writing-desk, with a 
smaller work-box, or netting-case, was all that 
each young lady contributed to occupy the table; 
for the large family work-basket, though often 
produced in the parlor, lived in the closet. 

There must have been more dancing throughout 
the country in those days than there is now; and it 
seems to have sprung up more spontaneously, as if 
it were a natural production, with less fastidious- 
ness as to the quality of music, lights, and floor. 
Many country towns had a monthly ball through- 
out the winter, in some of which the same apart- 
ment served for dancing and tea room. Dinner 
parties more frequently ended with an extempore 
dance on the carpet, to the music of a harpsichord 
in the house, or a fiddle from the village. This 
was always supposed to be for the entertainment 
of the young people; but many who had little 
pretension to youth were very ready to join in it. 
There can be no doubt that Jane herself enjoyed 
dancing, for she attributes this taste to her 
favorite heroines; in most of her works, a ball 
or a private dance is mentioned, and made of 
importance. 

Many things connected with the ball-rooms of 
those days have now passed into oblivion. The 
barbarous law .which confined the lady to one 


204 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


partner througliout the evening must indeed have 
been abolished before Jane went to balls. It must 
be observed, however, that this custom was in one 
respect advantageous to the gentleman, inasmuch 
as it rendered his duties more practicable. He was 
bound to call upon his partner the next morning, 
and it must have been convenient to have only one 
lady for whom he was obliged 

To gallop all the country over, 

The last night’s partner to behold, 

And humbly hope she caught no cold.” 

But the stately minuet still reigned supreme; 
and every regular ball commenced with it. It was 
a slow and solemn movement, — expressive of 
grace and dignity, rather than of merriment. It 
abounded in formal bows and courtesies, with meas- 
ured paces, forwards, backwards, and sideways, and 
many complicated gyrations. It was executed by 
one lady and gentleman, amidst the admiration, or 
the criticism, of surrounding spectators. In its 
earlier and most palmy days, as when Sir Charles 
and Lady Grandison delighted the company by 
dancing it at their own wedding, the gentleman 
wore a dress sword, and the lady was armed with a 
fan of nearly equal dimensions. Addison observes 
that women are armed with fans, as men with 
swords, and sometimes do more execution with 
them.’^ The graceful carriage of each weapon was 
considered a test of high breeding. The clownish 
man was in danger of being tripped up by his 
sword getting between his legs; the fan held 
clumsily looked more of a burden than an orna- 


A MEMOIK OF JANE AUSTEN. 205 


ment; while in the hands of an adept it could be 
made to speak a language of its own.^ It was not 
every one who felt qualified to make this public 
exhibition, and I have been told that those ladies 
who intended to dance minuets used to distinguish 
themselves from others by wearing a particular 
kind of lappet on their head-dress. I have heard also 
of another curious proof of the respect in which 
this dance was held. Gloves immaculately clean 
were considered requisite for its due performance, 
while gloves a little soiled were thought good 
enough for a country dance; and accordingly some 
prudent ladies provided themselves with two pairs 
for their several purposes. The minuet expired 
with the last century; but long after it had ceased 
to be danced publicly it was taught to boys and 
girls, in order to give them a graceful carriage. 

Hornpipes, cotillons, and reels were occasionally 
danced; but the chief occupation of the evening 
was the interminable country dance, in which all 
could join. This dance presented a great show of 
enjoyment, but it was not without its peculiar 
troubles. The ladies and gentlemen were ranged 
apart from each other, in opposite rows, so that the 
facilities for flirtation, or interesting intercourse, 
were not so great as might have been desired by 

1 See “ Spectator,” No. 102, on the Fan Exercise. Old 
gentlemen who had survived the fashion of wearing swords 
were known to regret the disuse of that custom, because it 
put an end to one way of distinguishing those who had, from 
tnose who had not, been used to good society. To wear the 
sword easily was an art which, like swimming and skating, 
required to be learned in youth. Children could practise it 
early with their toy swords adapted to their size. 


206 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


botli parties. Much heart-burning and discontent 
sometimes arose as to who should stand above 
whom, and especially as to who was entitled to the 
high privilege of calling and leading off the first 
dance; and no little indignation was felt at the 
lower end of the room when any of the leading 
couples retired prematurely from their duties, and 
did not condescend to dance up and down the 
whole set. We may rejoice that these causes of 
irritation no longer exist; and that if such feelings 
as jealousy, rivalry, and discontent ever touch 
celestial bosoms in the modern ball-room they must 
arise from different and more recondite sources. 

I am tempted to add a little about the difference 
of personal habits. It may be asserted as a general 
truth, that less was left to the charge and discretion 
of servants, and more was done, or superintended, 
by the masters and mistresses. With regard to 
the mistresses, it is, I believe, generally under- 
stood, that at the time to which I refer, a hundred 
years ago, they took a personal part in the higher 
branches of cookery, as well as in the concoction of 
home-made wines and distilling of herbs for 
domestic medicines, which are nearly allied to the 
same art. Ladies did not disdain to spin the 
thread of which the household linen was woven. 
Some ladies liked to wash with their own hands 
their choice china after breakfast or tea. In one 
of my earliest child’s books, a little girl, the 
daughter of a gentleman, is taught by her mother 
to make her own bed before leaving her chamber. 
It was not so much that they had not servants to 
do all these things for them, as that they took an 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN 


207 


Interest in such occupations. And it must he 
borne in mind how many sources of interest 
enjoyed b}’- this generation were then closed, or 
very scantily opened, to ladies. A very small 
minority of them cared much for literature or 
science. Music was not a very common, and draw- 
ing was a still rarer, accomplishment; needlework, 
in some form or other, was their chief sedentary 
employment. 

But 1 doubt whether the rising generation are 
equally aware how much gentlemen also did for 
themselves in those times, and whether some things 
that I can mention will not be a surprise to them. 
Two homely proverbs were held in higher estima- 
tion in my early days than they are now; ^‘The 
master’s eye makes the horse fat;” and, “If you 
would be well served, serve yourself.” Some. gen- 
tlemen took pleasure in being their own gardeners, 
performing all the scientific, and some of the man- 
ual, work themselves. Well-dressed young men 
of my acquaintance, who had their coat from a 
London tailor, would always brush their evening 
suit themselves, rather than intrust it to the care- 
lessness of a rough servant, and to the risks of dirt 
and grease in the kitchen; for in those days ser- 
vants’ halls were not common in the houses of the 
clergy and the smaller country gentry. It was 
quite natural that Catherine Morland should have 
contrasted the magnificence of the offices at Nor- 
thanger Abbey with the few shapeless pantries in 
her father’s parsonage. A young man who expected 
to have his things packed or unpacked for him by 
^ servant, when he travelled, would have been 


208 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


thought exceptionally fine, or exceptionally lazy. 
When my uncle undertook to teach me to shoot, 
his first lesson was how to clean my own gun. It was 
thought meritorious on the evening of a hunting 
day, to turn out after dinner, lantern in hand, 
and visit the stable, to ascertain that the horse had 
been well cared for. This was of the more impor- 
tance, because, previous to the introduction of clip- 
ping, about the year 1820, it was a difficult and 
tedious work to make a long-coated hunter dry and 
comfortable, and was often very imperfectly done. 
Of course, such things were not practised by those 
who had gamekeepers, and stud-grooms, and plenty 
of well-trained servants; but they were practised 
by many who were unequivocally gentlemen, and 
whose grandsons, occupying the same position in 
life, may perhaps be astonished at being told that 
*^siuih things were.^^ 

I have drawn pictures for which my own expe- 
rience, or what I heard from others in my youth, 
have supplied the materials. Of course, they cannot 
be universally applicable. Such details varied in 
various circles, and were changed very gradually; 
nor can I pretend to tell how much of what I have 
said is descriptive of the family life at Steventon in 
Jane Austen’s youth. I am sure that the ladies 
there had nothing to do with the mysteries of the 
stew-pot or the preserving-pan ; but it is probable 
that their way of life differed a little from ours, 
and would have appeared to us more homely. It 
may be that useful articles, which would not now 
be produced in drawing-rooms, were hemmed, and 
marked, and darned in the old-fashioned parlor. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


209 


But all this concerned only the outer life; there 
was as much cultivation and refinement of mind as 
now, with probably more studied courtesy and cere- 
mony of manner to visitors; whilst certainly in 
that family literary pursuits were not neglected. 

I remember to have heard of only two little 
things different from modern customs. One was 
that on hunting mornings the young men usually 
took their hasty breakfast in the kitchen. The 
early hour at which hounds then met may account 
for this; and probably the custom began, if it did 
not end, when they were boys ; for they hunted at 
an early age, in a scrambling sort of way, upon 
any pony or donkey that they could procure, or, in 
default of such luxuries, on foot. I have been told 
that Sir Francis Austen, when seven years old, 
bought on his own account, it must be supposed 
with his father’s permission, a pony for a guinea 
and a half; and after riding him with great success 
for two seasons, sold him for a guinea more. One 
may wonder how the child could have so much 
money, and how the animal could have been ob- 
tained for so little. The same authority informs 
me that his first cloth suit was made from a scarlet 
habit, which, according to the fashion of the times, 
had been his mother’s usual morning dress. If all 
this is true, the future Admiral of the British 
Fleet must have cut a conspicuous figure in the 
hunting-field. The other peculiarity was that, 
when the roads were dirty, the sisters took long 
walks in pattens. This defence against wet and 
dirt is now seldom seen. The few that remain are 
banished from good society, and employed only in 
14 


210 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


menial work; but a hundred and fifty years ago 
they were celebrated in poetry, and considered so 
clever a contrivance that Gay, in his Trivia,’^ 
ascribes the invention to a god stimulated by his 
passion for a mortal damsel, and derives the name 

Patten’^ from Patty. 

The patten now supports each frugal dame, 

Which from the blue-eyed Patty takes the name.” 

But mortal damsels have long ago discarded the 
clumsy implement. First it dropped its iron ring 
and became a clog; afterwards it was fined down 
into the pliant galoshe, — lighter to wear and more 
effectual to protect, — a no less manifest instance 
of gradual improvement than Cowper indicates 
when he traces through eighty lines of poetry his 
^^accomplished sofa’^ back to the original three- 
legged stool. 

As an illustration of the purposes which a patten 
was intended to serve, I add the following epigram, 
written by Jane Austen’s uncle, Mr. Leigh Perrot, 
on reading in a newspaper the marriage of Captain 
Foote to Miss Patten : — 

** Through the rough paths of life, with a patten your guard, 
May you safely and pleasantly jog ; 

May the knot never slip, nor the ring press too hard, 

Nor the Foot find the Patten a clog.” 

At the time when Jane Austen lived at Steven- 
ton, a work was carried on in the neighboring cot- 
tages which ought to be recorded, because it has 
long ceased to exist. 

Up to the beginning of the present century, poor 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


211 


women found profitable employment in spinning 
flax or wool. This was a better occupation for 
them than straw-plaiting, inasmuch as it was 
carried on at the family hearth, and did not admit 
of gadding and gossiping about the village. The 
implement used was a long, narrow machine of 
wood, raised on legs, furnished at one end with a 
large wheel, and at the other with a spindle, on 
which the flax or wool was loosely wrapped, con- 
nected together by a loop of string. One hand 
turned the wheel, while the other formed the 
thread. The outstretched arms, the advanced foot, 
the sway of the whole figure backwards and for- 
wards, produced picturesque attitudes, .and dis- 
played whatever of grace or beauty the work-woman 
might possess.^ Some ladies were fond of spin- 
ning; but they worked in a quieter manner, sitting 
at a neat little machine of varnished wood, like 
Tunbridge ware, generally turned by the foot, with 
a basin of water at hand to supply the moisture re- 
quired for forming the thread, which the cottager 
took by a more direct and natural process from her 
own mouth. I remember two such elegant little 
wheels in our own family. 

It may be observed that this hand-spinning is 
the most primitive of female accomplishments, and 
can be traced back to the earliest times. Ballad 
poetry and fairy-tales are full of allusions to it. 
The term spinster still testifies to its hav- 
ing been the ordinary employment of the Eng- 
lish young woman. It was the labor assigned to 

1 Mrs. Gaskell, in her tale of “ Sylvia’s Lovers,” declares that 
this band-spinning rivalled harp-playing in its gracefulness. 


212 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


the ejected nuns by the rough earl who said, Go 
spin, ye jades, go spin.’’ It was the employment 
at which Roman matrons and Grecian princesses 
presided amongst their handmaids. Heathen my- 
thology celebrated it in three Fates spinning and 
measuring out the thread of human life. Holy 
Scripture honors it in those ^^wise-hearted women ” 
who did spin with their hands, and brought that 
which they had spun ” for the construction of the 
Tabernacle in the wilderness; and an old English 
proverb carries it still farther back to the time 
‘‘when Adam delved and Eve span.” But, at 
last, this time-honored domestic manufacture is 
quite extinct amongst us, — crushed by the power 
of steam, overborne by a countless host of spinning- 
jennies, and I can only just remember some of 
its last struggles for existence in the Steventon 
cottages. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


213 


CHAPTEK III. 

Early Compositions — Friends at Ashe — Avert old 
Letter — Lines on the Death op Mrs. Lefroy — 
Observations on Jane Austen’s Letter-writing — 
Letters. 

I KNOW little of Jane Austen’s childhood. Her 
mother followed a custom, not unusual in those 
days, though it seems strange to us, of putting out 
her babies to be nursed in a cottage in the village. 
The infant was daily visited by one or both of its 
parents, and frequently brought to them at the 
parsonage ; but the cottage was its home, and must 
have remained so till it was old enough to run 
about and talk; for I know that one of them, in 
after life, used to speak of his foster-mother as 
Movie,” the name by which he had called hcT 
in his infancy. It may be that the contrast be- 
tween the parsonage house and the best class oS. 
cottages was not quite so extreme then as it would 
be now, — that the one was somewhat less luxurious, 
and the other less squalid. It would certainly 
seem from the results that it was a wholesome and 
invigorating system; for the children were all 
strong and healthy. Jane was probably treated 
like the rest in this respect. In childhood every 
available opportunity of instruction was made use 
of. According to the ideas of the time, she was 


214 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


well educated, though not highly accomplished, 
and she certainly enjoyed that important element 
of mental training, associating at home with per- 
sons of cultivated intellect. It cannot be doubted 
that her early years were bright and happy, liv- 
ing as she did with indulgent parents, in a cheerful 
home, not without agreeable variety of society. To 
these sources of enjoyment must be added the first 
stirrings of talent within her, and the absorbing in- 
terest of original composition. It is impossible to 
say at how an early age she began to write. There 
are copy-books extant containing tales, some of 
which must have been composed while she was a 
young girl, as they had amounted to a considerable 
number by the time she was sixteen. Her earli- 
est stories are of a slight and fiimsy texture, and 
are generally intended to be nonsensical; but the 
nonsense has much spirit in it. They are usually 
preceded by a dedication of mock solemnity to 
some one of her family. It would seem that the 
grandiloquent dedications prevalent in those days 
had not escaped her youthful penetration. Per- 
haps the most characteristic feature in these early 
productions is that, however puerile the matter, 
they are always composed in pure simple English, 
quite free from the over-ornamented style which 
might be expected from so young a writer. One 
of her juvenile effusions is given as a specimen 
of the kind of transitory amusement which Jane 
was continually supplying to the family party. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


215 


THE MYSTEEY. 

AN UNFINISHED COMEDY. 


DEDICATION. 

To THE Rev, George Austen. 

Sir, — I humbly solicit your patronage to the following 
Comedy, which, though an unfinished one, is, I flatter 
myself, as complete a Mystery as any of its kind. 

I am. Sir, your most humble Servant, 

The Author. 


THE MYSTERY; A COMEDY. 


DRAMATIS PERSONS. 


Men. 


Womens 


CoL Elliott. 

Old Humbug. 

Young Humbug. 

Sir Edward Spangle, 
and 

CORYDON. 


Fanny Elliott. 
Mrs. Humbug, 
and 
Daphne. 


ACT I. 

Scene I. — A Garden. 

Enter Corydon. 

Corydon. But hush : I am interrupted. [Exii 
Corydon. 


216 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


Enter Old Humbug and his Son, talking. 

Old Hum. It is for that reason that I wish you to foh 
low my advice. Are you convinced of its propriety ? 

Young Hum. I am, sir, and will certainly act in the 
manner you have pointed out to me. 

Old Hum. Then let us return to the house. \JExeunt. 

Scene II. — A parlor in Humbug’s house. Mrs. 
Humbug and Fanny discovered at work. ' 

Mrs. Hum. You understand me, my love ? 

Fanny. Perfectly, ma’am ; pray continue your 
narration. 

Mrs. Hum. Alas ! it is nearly concluded ; for I have 
nothing more to say on the subject. 

Fanny. Ah, here is Daphne. 

Enter Daphne. 

Daphne. My dear Mrs. Humbug, how d’ ye do ? Oh, 
Fanny ! it is all over. 

Fanny. Is it indeed? 

Mrs. Hum. I’m very 'sorry to hear it. 

Fanny. Then ’t was to no purpose that I — 

Daphne. None upon earth. 

Mrs. Hum. And what is to become of — ? 

Daphne. Oh 1 ’t is all settled. [ Whispers Mrs. 
Humbug.] 

Fanny. And how is it determined ? 

Daphne. I’ll tell you. \_Whispers Fanny.] 

Mrs. Hum. And is he to — ? 

Daphne. I ’ll tell you all I know of the matter, f Whis^ 
pers Mrs. Humbug and Fanny.] 

Fanny. Well, now I know everything about it, 1 ’ll go 
away. 

Mrs. Hum. ) . , t 

Daphne. 1 And so will 1. lExeunt. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 217 


Scene TIL — The curtain rises, and discovers Sir 
Edward Spangle reclined in an elegant attitude on a 
sofa, fast asleep. 

Enter Col. Elliott. 

Col. E. My daughter is not here, I see. There lies 
Sir Edward. Shall I tell him the secret ? No, he ’ll 
certainly blab it. But he ’s asleep, and won’t hear me ; — 
so I’ll e’en venture. \^Goes up to Sir Edward, whispers 
him, and exit. 

end of the first act. 

FINIS. 

Her own mature opinion of the desirableness of 
such an early habit of composition is given in the 
following words of a niece : — 

^^As I grew older, my aunt would talk to me 
more seriously of my reading and my amusements. 
I had taken early to writing verses and stories, 
rmd I am sorry to think how I troubled her with 
reading them. She was very kind about it, and 
always had some praise to bestow; but at last she 
warned me against spending too much time upon 
them. She said — how well I recollect it! — that 
she knew writing stories was a great amusement, 
and she thought a harmless one, though many peo- 
ple, she was aware, thought otherwise; but that at 
my age it would be bad for me to be much taken 
up with my own compositions. Later still — it 
was after she had gone to Winchester — she sent 
me a message to this effect, that if I would take 
her advice, I should cease writing till I was six- 
teen; that she had herself often wished she had 
read more and written less in the corresponding 


218 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


years of her own life ’’ As this niece was only 
twelve years old at the time of her aunt’s death, 
these words seem to imply that the juvenile tales 
to which I have referred had, some of them at 
least, been written in her childhood. 

But between these childish effusions and the 
composition of her living works there intervened 
another stage of her progress, during which she 
produced some stories, not without merit, but 
which she never considered worthy of publication. 
During this preparatory period her mind seems to 
have been working in a very different direction 
from that into which it ultimately settled. In- 
stead of presenting faithful copies of nature, these 
tales were generally burlesques, ridiculing the im- 
probable events and exaggerated sentiments which 
she had met with in sundry silly romances. Some- 
thing of this fancy is to be found in ‘‘Northanger 
Abbey j” but she soon left it far behind in her sub- 
sequent course. It would seem as if she were first 
taking note of all the faults to be avoided, and curi- 
ously considering how she ought 7iot to write before 
she attempted to put forth her strength in the 
right direction. The family have, rightly, I think, 
declined to let these early works be published. 
Mr. Shortreed observed very pithily of Walter 
Scott’s early rambles on the borders, ‘^He was 
makin’ himsell a’ the time; but he didna ken, 
may be, what he was about till years had passed. 
At first he thought of little, I dare say, but the 
queerness and the fun.” And so, in a humbler 
way, Jane Austen was makin’ hersell, ” little 
thinking of future fame, but caring only for *<the 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


219 


queerness and the fun ; ’’ and it would be as unfair 
to expose this preliminary process to the world as 
it would be to display all that goes on behind the 
curtain of the theatre before it is drawn up. 

It was, however, at Steventon that the real 
foundations of her fame were laid. There some of 
her most successful writing was composed, at such 
an early age as to make it surprising that so young 
a woman could have acquired the insight into 
character and the nice observation of manners 
which they display. Pride and Prejudice,’’ 
which some consider the most brilliant of her 
novels, was the first finished, if not the first begun. 
She began it in October, 1796, before she was 
twenty-one j^ears old, and completed it in about 
ten months, in August, 1797. The title then in- 
tended for it was First Impressions.” Sense 
and Sensibility” was begun, in its present form, 
immediately after the completion of the former, in 
November, 1797; but something similar in story 
and character had been written earlier under the 
title of Elinor and Marianne;” and if, as is 
probable, a good deal of this earlier production was 
retained, it must form the earliest specimen of her 
writing that has been given to the world. ^^Nor- 
thanger Abbey,” though not prepared for the press 
till 1803, was certainly first composed in 1798. 

Amongst the most valuable neighbors of the 
Austens were Mr. and Mrs. Lefroy and their 
family. He was rector of the adjoining parish of 
Ashe; she was sister to Sir Egerton Brydges, to 
whom we are indebted for the earliest notice of 
Jane Austen that exists. In his avitobiography, 


220 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


speaking of his visits at Ashe, he writes thus: 
‘^The nearest neighbors of the Lefroys were the 
Austens of Steventon. I remember Jane Austen, 
the novelist, as a little child. She was very inti- 
mate with Mrs. Lefroy, and much encouraged by 
her. Her mother was a Miss Leigh, whose pater- 
nal grandmother was sister to the first Duke of 
Chandos. Mr. Austen was of a Kentish family, 
of which several branches have been settled in the 
Weald of Kent, and some are still remaining 
there. When I knew Jane Austen, I never sus- 
pected that she was an authoress; but my eyes 
told me that she was fair and handsome, slight 
and elegant, but with cheeks a little too full.’^ 
One may wish that Sir Egerton had dwelt rather 
longer on the subject of these memoirs, instead of 
being drawn away by his extreme love for genealo- 
gies to her great-grandmother and ancestors. That 
great-grandmother, however, lives in the family 
records as Mary Brydges, a daughter of Lord 
Chandos, married in Westminster Abbey to The- 
ophilus Leigh of Addlestrop in 1698. When a 
girl she had received a curious letter of advice and 
reproof, written by her mother from Constanti- 
nople. Mary, or ^^Poll,’’ was remaining in Eng- 
land with her grandmother. Lady Bernard, who 
seems to have been wealthy and inclined to be too 
indulgent to her granddaughter. This letter is 
given. Any such authentic document, two hun- 
dred years old, dealing vrith domestic details, must 
possess some interest. This is remarkable, not 
only as a specimen of the homely language in 
which ladies of rank then expressed themselves, 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 221 


but from the sound sense which it contains. 
Forms of expression vary; but good sense and 
right principles are the same in the nineteenth 
that they were in the seventeenth century. 

My DEARES Poll, — Y' letters by Cousin 
Robbert Serle arrived here not before the 27^ of 
Aprill, yett were they hartily Wellcome to us, 
bringing y® joyful news which a great while we 
had longed for of my most dear Mother & all other 
relations & friends good health which I beseech 
God continue to you all, & as I observe in y” to 
y*” Sister Betty y® extraordinary kindness of (as I 
may truly say) the best Moth' & Moth' in the 
world in pinching herself to make you fine, so I 
cannot but admire her great good Housewifry in 
affording you so very plentifull an allowance, & 
yett to increase her Stock at the rate I find she 
hath done; & think I can never sufiiciently mind 
you how very much it is y' duty on all occasions 
to pay her y' gratitude in all humble submission 
& obedience to all her commands soe long as you 
live. I must tell you ’t is to her bounty & care in 
y® greatest measure you are like to owe y' well 
living in this world, & as you cannot be very sen- 
sible you are an extraordinary charge to her so it 
behoves you to take particular heed th* in y® whole 
course of y' life, you render her a proportionable 
comfort, especially since ^t is y® best way you can 
ever hope to make her such amends as God requires 
of y' hands. But Poll ! it grieves me a little & 
y* I am forced to take notice of & reprove you 
for some vaine expressions in y' lett" to y' Sister 


222 


A MEMOIK OF JANE AUSTEN. 


— you say concerning y*^ allowance ‘^you aime to 
bring y" bread & cheese even ” in this I do not 
discommend you, for a foule shame indeed it 
would be should you out run the Constable having 
soe liberall a provision made you for y' mainte- 
nance — but y° reason you give for y* resolution I 
cannot at all approve for you say ^^to spend more 
you can’t ” thats because you have it not to spend, 
otherwise it seems you would. So y* ’t is y*" Grand- 
moth’’® discretion & not yours th^ keeps you from 
extravagancy, which plainly appears in y® close of 
y' sentence, saying y* you think it simple covet- 
ousness to save out of y*"® but ’t is my opinion if 
you lay all on y*" back ’t is ten tymes a greater sin 
& shame th“ to save some what out of soe large an 
allowance in y"" purse to help you at a dead lift. 
Child, we all know our beginning, but who knows 
his end? Y® best use th* can be made of fair 
weatlT is to provide against foule & ’t is great dis- 
cretion & of noe small commendations for a young 
woman betymes to shew herself housewifly & frugal. 

Mother neither Maide nor wife ever yett be- 
stowed forty pounds a yeare on herself & yett if 
you never fall und*" a worse reputation in y® world 
th“ she (I thank God for it) hath hitherto done, 
you need not repine at it, & you cannot be igno- 
rant of y® difference th* was between my fortune 
& what you are to expect. You ought likewise to 
consider th* you have seven brothers & sisters & 
you are all one man’s children & therefore it is 
very unreasonable that one should expect to be 
preferred in finery soe much above all y® rest for 
’tis impossible you should soe much mistake 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


223 


y' ffatlier’s condition as to fancy he is able to 
allow every one of you forty pounds a yeare a 
piece, for such an allowance with the charge of 
their diett over and above will amount to at least 
five hundred pounds a yeare, a sum y*" poor ffather 
can ill spare, besides doe hut bethink y'self what a 
ridiculous sight it will be when y" grandmoth' & 
you come to us to have noe less th“ seven waiting 
gentlewomen in one house, for what reason can 
you give why every one of y' SisU® should not have 
every one of y™ a Maide as well as you, & though 
you may spare to pay y*^ maide’s wages out of 
y"^ allowance yett you take no care of y® unneces- 
sary charge you put y' ffath*^ to in y' increase of 
his family, whereas if it were not a piece of pride 
to have y® name of keeping y' maide she y* waits 
on y*^ good Grandmother might easily doe as for- 
merly you know she hath done, all y® business you 
have for a maide unless as you grow old'’ you grow 
a veryer Foole which God forbid ! 

Poll, you live in a place where you see great 
plenty & splendor, but let not y® allurements of 
earthly pleasures tempt you to forget or neglect 
y® duty of a good Christian in dressing y*" betU part 
which is y*" soule, as will best please God. I am 
not against y*” going decent & neate as becomes 
y' ffathers daughter but to clothe y’'self rich & be 
running into every gaudy fashion can never be- 
come y' circumstances & instead of doing you 
creditt & getting you a good prefer^* it is y* readi- 
est way you can take to fright all sober men from 
ever thinking of matching th*" selves with women 


224 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


that live above thy" fortune, & if this he a wise 
way of spending money judge you! & besides, doe 
but reflect what an od sight it will he to a stranger 
that comes to our house to see y" Grandmoth" 
y" Moth" & all y" Sisters in a plane dress & you 
only trick‘d up like a hartlemewhabby — you know 
what sort of people those are th* can’t faire well 
but they must cry rost meate now what effect 
could you imagine y' writing in such a high 
straine to y" Sisters could have but eithe" to pro- 
voke th™ to envy you or murmur against us. I 
must tell you neith" of y" Sisters have ever had 
twenty pounds a yeare allowance from us yett, & 
yett they" dress hath not disparaged neith" th*" nor 
us & without incurring y® censure of simple covet- 
ousness they will have some what to shew out of 
their saving that will doe th® creditt & I expect 
y* you th" are theyr elder Sister sh*^ rather sett 
th™ examples of y® like nature th“ tempt th"^ from 
treading in y® steps of their good Grandmoth" & 
poor Moth". This is not half what might be saide 
on this occasion but believing thee to be a very 
good natured dutyfull child I sh*^ have thought it 
a great deal too much but y^ having in my coming 
hither past through many most desperate dangers 
I cannot forbear thinking & preparing myself for 
all events, & therefore not knowing how it may 
please God to dispose of us I conclude it my duty 
to God & thee my d" child to lay this matter as 
home to thee as I could, assuring you my daily 
prayers are not nor shall not be wanting that God 
may give you grace always to remember to make a 
right use of this truly affectionate counsell of 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. . 225 


y** poor Moth'. & though I speak very plaine down- 
right english to you yett I would not have you 
doubt hut that I love you as hartily as any child 
I have & if you serve God and take good courses I 
promise you my kindness to you shall be accord- 
ing to y' own hart’s desire, for you may be certain 
I can aime at nothing in what I have now writ 
but y' real good which to promote shall be y® study 
& care day & night 

Of my dear Poll 
thy truly affectionate Moth' . 

Eliza Chandos. 

Pera of Galata, May y« 6th 1686. 

P. S. — Thy ffath' & I send thee our blessing, 
& all thy broth'* & sist'* they' service. Our harty 
& affectionate service to my broth' & sist' Childe & 
all my dear cozens. When you see my Lady 
Worster & cozen Howlands pray present th™ my 
most humble service. 

This letter shows that the wealth acquired by 
trade was already manifesting itself in contrast 
with the straitened circumstances of some of the 
nobility. Mary Brydges’s ‘^poor ffather,” in 
whose household economy was necessary, was the 
King of England’s ambassador at Constantinople; 
the grandmother, who lived in great plenty and 
splendor,” was the widow of a Turkey merchant. 
But then, as now, it would seem, rank had the 
power of attracting and absorbing wealth. 

At Ashe also Jane became acquainted with a 
member of the Lefroy family, who was still living 
when I began these memoirs, a few months ago; 

15 


226 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


tlie Eight Hon. Thomas Lefroy, late Chief Justice 
of Ireland. One must look back more than seventy 
years to reach the time when these two bright 
young persons were, for a short time, intimately 
acquainted with each other, and then separated on 
their several courses, never to meet again; both des- 
tined to attain some distinction in their different 
ways, — one to survive the other for more than half 
a century, yet in his extreme old age to remember 
and speak, as he sometimes did, of his former com- 
panion as one to be much admired, and not easily 
forgotten by those who had ever known her. 

Mrs. Lefroy herself was a remarkable person. 
Her rare endowments of goodness, talents, grace- 
ful person, and engaging manners, were sufficient 
to secure her a prominent place in any society into 
which she was thrown; while her enthusiastic 
eagerness of disposition rendered her especially 
attractive to a clever and lively girl. She was 
killed by a fall from her horse on Janets birthday, 
Dec. 16, 1804. The following lines to her memory 
were written by Jane four years afterwards, when 
she was thirty-three years old. They are given, 
not for their merits as poetry, but to show how 
deep and lasting was the impression made by the 
elder friend on the mind of the younger : — 

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. LEFROY. 

1 . 

The day returns again, my natal day ; 

What mix’d emotions in my mind arise! 

Beloved Friend ; four years have passed away 

Since thou wert snatched for ever from our eyes. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


2 . 

The day commemorative of my birth, 

Bestowing life and light and hope to me, 

Brings back the hour which was thy last on earth. 
Oh, bitter pang of torturing memory I 

8 . 

Angelic woman ! past my power to praise 
In language meet thy talents, temper, mind, 
Thy solid worth, thy captivating grace. 

Thou friend and ornament of human kind. 


4 . 

But come, fond Fancy, thou indulgent power ; 

Hope is desponding, chill, severe, to thee ; 
Bless thou this little portion of an hour ; 

Let me behold her as she used to be. 


5 . 

I see her here with all her smiles benign. 
Her looks of eager love, her accents sweet, 
That voice and countenance almost divine. 
Expression, harmony, alike complete, j 


6 . 

Listen ! It is not sound alone, ^t is sense, 

*T is genius, taste, and tenderness of soul : 

*T is genuine warmth of heart without pretence. 
And purity of mind that crowns the whole. 


7 . 

She speaks ! 'T is eloquence, that grace of tongue. 
So rare, so lovely, never misapplied 
By her, to palliate vice, or deck a wrong : 

She speaks and argues but on virtue’s side. 


8 . 

Hers is the energy of soul sincere : 

Her Christian spirit, ignorant to feign, 


228 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


Seeks but to comfort, heal, enlighten, cheer, 
Confer a pleasure or prevent a pain. 


9 . 

Can aught enhance such goodness yes, to me 
Her partial favor from my earliest years 
Consummates all ; ah, give me but to see 
Her smile of love ! The vision disappears. 


10 . 

*r is past and gone. We meet no more below. 

Short is the cheat of Fancy o’er the tomb. 
Oh, might I hope to equal bliss to go, 

To meet thee, angel, in thy future home I 


11 . 

Fain would I feel an union with thy fate : 

Fain would I seek to draw an omen fair 
From this connection in our earthly date. 

Indulge the harmless weakness. Reason, spare. 

The loss of their first home is generally a great 
grief to young persons of strong feeling and lively 
imagination; and Jane was exceedingly unhappy 
when she was told that her father, now seventy 
years of age, had determined to resign his duties 
to his eldest son, who was to he his successor in 
the rectory of Steventon, and to remove with his 
wife and daughters to Bath. Jane had been absent 
from home when this resolution was taken; and, 
as her father was always rapid both in forming his 
resolutions and in acting on them, she had little 
time to reconcile herself to the change. 

A wish has sometimes been expressed that some 
of Jane Austen’s letters should he published. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


229 


Some entire letters, and many extracts, will be 
given in this Memoir; but the reader must be 
warned not to expect too much from them. With 
regard to accuracy of language, indeed every word 
of them might be printed without correction. The 
style is always clear, and generally animated, 
while a vein of humor continually gleams through 
the whole; but the materials may be thought 
inferior to the execution, for they treat only of the 
details of domestic life. There is in them no 
notice of politics or public events; scarcely any 
discussions on literature, or other subjects of 
general interest. They may be said to resemble 
the nest which some little bird builds of the 
materials nearest at hand, — of the twigs and mosses 
supplied by the tree in which it is placed, curi- 
ously constructed out of the simplest matters. 

Her letters have very seldom the date of the 
year, or the signature of her Christian name at full 
length ; but it has been easy to ascertain their dates, 
either from the post-mark or from their contents. 

The two following letters are the earliest that I 
have seen. They were both written in November, 
1800, before the family removed from Steventon. 
Some of the same circumstances are referred to in 
both. 

The first is to her sister Cassandra, who was 
then staying with their brother Edward at Godmer- 
sham Park, Kent; — 

Steventon, Saturday evening, Nov. 8th. 

My dear Cassandra, — I thank you for so 
speedy a return to my two last, and particularly 


230 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


thank you for your anecdote of Charlotte Graham 
and her cousin, Harriet Bailey, which has very 
much amused both my mother and myself. If you 
can learn anything farther of that interesting 
affair, I hope you will mention it. I have two 
messages; let me get rid of them, and then my 
paper will be my own. Mary fully intended 
writing to you by Mr. Chute’s frank, and only 
happened entirely to forget it, but will write soon; 
and my father wishes Edward to send him a 
memorandum of the price of the hops. The tables 
are come, and give general contentment. I had 
not expected that they would so perfectly suit the 
fancy of us all three, or that we should so Avell 
agree in the disposition of them; but nothing 
except their own surface can have been smoother. 
The two ends put together form one constant table 
for everything, and the centrepiece stands exceed- 
ingly well under the glass, and holds a great deal 
most commodiously, without looking awkwardly. 
They are both covered with green baize, and send 
their best love. The Pembroke has got its desti- 
nation by the sideboard, and my mother has great 
delight in keeping her money and papers locked 
up. The little table which used to stand there has 
most conveniently taken itself off into the best bed- 
room ; and we are now in want only of the chiffon- 
niere, is neither finished nor come. So much for 
that subject; I now come to another, of a very 
different nature, as other subjects are very apt to 
be. Earle Harwood has been again giving uneasi- 
ness to his family and talk to the neighborhood : in 
the present instance, however, he is only unfortu- 
nate, and not in fault. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 231 


About ten days ago, in cocking a pistol in the 
guard-room at Marcau, he accidentally shot him- 
self through the thigh. Two young Scotch sur- 
geons in the island were polite enough to propose 
taking off the thigh at once, but to that he would 
not consent ; and accordingly in his wounded state 
was put on board a cutter and conveyed to Haslar 
Hospital, at Gosport, where the bullet was ex- 
tracted, and where he now is, I hope, in a fair way of 
doing well. The surgeon of the hospital wrote to 
the family on the occasion, and John Harwood 
went down to him immediately, attended by James, ^ 
whose object in going was to be the means of 
bringing back the earliest intelligence to Mr. and 
Mrs. Harwood, whose anxious sufferings, particu- 
larly those of the latter, have of course been dread- 
ful. They went down on Tuesday, and James 
came back the next day, bringing such favorable 
accounts as greatly to lessen the distress of the 
family at Deane, though it will probably be a long 
while before Mrs. Harwood can be quite at ease. 
One most material comfort, however, they have, — 
the assurance of its being really an accidental 
wound, which is not only positively declared by 
Earle himself, but is likewise testified by the 
particular direction of the bullet. Such a wound 
could not have been received in a duel. At present 
he is going on very well, but the surgeon will not 
declare him to be in no danger.^ Mr. Heathcote 
met with a genteel little accident the other day in 
hunting. He got off to lead his horse over a 

1 James, the writer’s eldest brother. 

2 The limb was saved. 


232 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


hedge, or a house, or something, and his horse in 
his haste trod upon his leg, or rather ankle, I 
believe, and it is not certain whether the small 
bone is not broke. Martha has accepted klary’s 
invitation for Lord Portsmouth’s ball. He has 
not yet sent out his own invitations, but that does 
not signify; Martha comes, and a ball there is to 
be. I think it will be too early in her mother’s 
absence for me to return with her. 

Sunday Evening. — We have had a dread- 
ful storm of wind in the fore part of this day, 
which has done a great deal of mischief among our 
trees. I was sitting alone in the dining-room 
when an odd kind of crash startled me; in a 
moment afterwards it was repeated. I then went 
to the window, which I reached just in time to see 
the last of our two highly valued elms descend into 
the Sweep ! ! ! ! ! The other, which had fallen, I 
suppose, in the first crash and which was the nearest 
to the pond, taking a more easterlj^ direction, sunk 
among our screen of chestnuts and firs, knocking 
down one spruce-fir, beating off the head of 
another, and stripping the two corner chestnuts 
of several branches in its fall. This is not all. 
One large elm, out of the two on the left-hand side 
as you enter what I call the elm-walk, was likewise 
blown down; the maple bearing the weathercock 
was broke in two ; and what I regret more than all 
the rest is, that all the three elms which grew in 
Hall’s meadow, and gave such ornament to it, are 
gone; two were blown down, and the other so 
much injured that it cannot stand. I am happy 
to add, however, that no greater evil than the 


A MEMOIR OE JANE AUSTEN. 


233 


loss of trees has been the consequence of the 
storm in this place, or in our immediate neighbor- 
hood. We grieve, therefore, in some comfort. 

I am yours ever, J. A. 

The next letter, written four days later than the 
former, was addressed to Miss Lloyd, an intimate 
friend, whose sister (my mother) was married to 
Jane’s eldest brother: — 

Steventon, Wednesday evening, Nov. 12th. 

My dear Martha, — I did not receive your 
note yesterday till after Charlotte had left Deane, 
or I would have sent my answer by her, instead of 
being the means, as I now must be, of lessening 
the elegance of your new dress for the Hurstbourne 
ball by the value of Sd. You are very good in 
wishing to see me at Ibthorp so soon, and I am 
equally good in wishing to come to you. I believe 
our merit in that respect is much upon a par, our 
self-denial mutually strong. Having paid this 
trib ate of praise to the virtue of both, I shall here 
have done with panegyric, and proceed to plain mat- 
ter of fact. In about a fortnight’s time I hope to be 
with you. I have two reasons for not being able 
to come before. I wish so to arrange my visit as 
to spend some days with you after your mother’s 
return. In the 1st place, that I may have the 
pleasure of seeing her, and in the 2nd, that I may 
have a better chance of bringing you back with me. 
Your promise in my favor was not quite absolute ; 
but if your will is not perverse, you and I will do 
all in our power to overcome your scruples of con- 


234 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


science. I hope we shall meet next week to talk 
all this over, till we have tired ourselves with the 
very idea of my visit before my visit begins. Our 
invitations for the 19th are arrived, and very curi- 
ously are they worded.^ Mary mentioned to you jes- 
terday poor Earle’s unfortunate accident, I dare say. 
He does not seem to be going on very well. The 
two or three last posts have brought less and less 
favorable accounts of him. John Harwood has 
gone to Gosport again to-day. We have two fami- 
lies of friends now who are in a most anxious state ; 
for though by a note from Catherine this morning 
there seems now to be a revival of hope at Many- 
down, its continuance may be too reasonably 
doubted. Mr. Heatlicote,^ however, who has 
broken the small bone of his leg, is so good as to 
be going on very well. It would be really too 
much to have three people to care for. 

You distress me cruelly by your request about 
books. I cannot think of any to bring with me, 
nor have I any idea of our wanting them. I come 
to you to be talked to, not to read or hear reading; 
I can do that at home; and indeed I am now lay- 
ing in a stock of intelligence to pour out on you as 

^ The invitation, the ball dress, and some other things in 
this and the preceding letter refer to a ball annually given at 
Hurstbourne Park, on the anniversary of the Earl of Ports- 
mouth’s marriage with his first wife. He was the Lord Ports- 
mouth whose eccentricities afterwards became notorious ; and 
the invitations, as well as other arrangements about these 
balls, were of a peculiar character. 

The father of Sir William Heathcote, of Hursley, who 
was married to a daughter of Mr. Bigg Wither, of Many down, 
and lived in the neighborhood. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 235 


my share of the conversation. I am reading 
Henry’s History of England, which I will repeat to 
yon in any manner you may prefer, — either in a loose, 
desultory, unconnected stream, or dividing my re- 
cital, as the historian divides it himself, into seven 
parts: The Civil and Military; Religion; Con- 
stitution ; Learning and Learned Men ; Arts and 
Sciences; Commerce, Coins, and Shipping; and 
Manners. So that for every evening in the week 
there will he a different subject. The Friday’s lot 
— Commerce, Coins, and Shipping — you will find 
the least entertaining; but the next evening’s por- 
tion will make amends. With such a provision on 
my part, if you will do yours by repeating the 
French Grammar, and Mrs. Stent ^ will now and 
then ejaculate some wonder about the cocks and 
hens, what can we want? Farewell for a short 
time. We all unite in best love, and I am your 
very affectionate 

J. A. 

The two next letters must have been written 
early in 1801, after the removal from Steventon had 
been decided on, hut before it had taken place. 
They refer to the two brothers who were at sea, 
and give some idea of a kind of anxieties and un- 
certainties to which sisters are seldom subject in 
these days of peace, steamers, and electric tele- 
graphs. At that time ships were often windbound 
or becalmed, or driven wide of their destination; 
and sometimes they had orders to alter their course 
for some secret service; not to mention the chance 
of conflict with a vessel of superior power, — no im* 

1 A very dull old lady, then residing with Mrs. Lloyd. 


236 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


probable occurrence before the battle of Trafalgar. 
Information about relatives on board men-of-war 
was scarce and scanty, and often picked up by hear- 
say or chance means; and every scrap of intelli- 
gence was proportionably valuable : — 

My dear Cassandra, — I should not have 
thought it necessary to write to you so soon, but for 
the arrival of a letter from Charles to myself. It 
was written last Saturday from off the Start,’’ and 
conveyed to Popham Lane by Captain Boyle on his 
way to Midgham. He came from Lisbon in the 
‘‘Endymion.” I will copy Charles’s account of 
his conjectures about Frank: ^^He has not seen 
my brother lately, nor does he expect to find him 
arrived, as he met Captain Inglis at Khodes, going 
up to take command of the ^ Petrel, ’ as he was com- 
ing down; but supposes he will arrive in less than 
a fortnight from this time, in some ship which is 
expected to reach England about that time with 
despatches from Sir Balph Abercrombie.” The 
event must show what sort of a conjuror Captain 
Boyle is. The Endymion ” has not been plagued 
with any more prizes. Charles spent three pleasant 
dsiys in Lisbon. 

They were very well satisfied with their royal 
passenger,! -whom they found jolly and affable, 
who talks of Lady Augusta as his wife, and seems 
much attached to her. 

When this letter was written, the Endy- 
mion ” was becalmed, but Charles hoped to reach 

! The Duke of Sussex, son of George III., married, with- 
out royal consent, to the Lady Augusta Murray. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 237 


Portsmouth by Monday or Tuesday. He received 
my letter, communicating our plans, before he 
left England; was much surprised, of course, but 
is quite reconciled to them, and means to come to 
Steventon once more while Steventon is ours. 

From a letter written later in the same year : — 

Charles has received 30^. for his share of the 
privateer, and expects lOZ. more; hut of what 
avail is it to take prizes if he \sijs out the produce 
in presents to his sisters? He has been buying 
gold chains and topaz crosses for us. He must he 
well scolded. The ‘ Endymion ’ has already re- 
ceived orders for taking troops to Egypt, which I 
should not like at all if I did not trust to Charles 
being removed from her somehow or other before 
she sails. He knows nothing of his own destina- 
tion, he says, but desires me to write directly, as 
the ‘Endymion ’ will probably sail in three or 
four days. He will receive my yesterday’s letter, 
and I shall write again by this post to thank and 
reproach him. We shall be unbearably fine.” 


238 A MEMOIH OF JANE AUSTEN. 


CHAPTEK IV. 

Removal from Steventon — Residences at Bath and 
AT Southampton — Settling at Chawton. 

The family removed to Bath in the spring of 
1801, where they resided, — first at No. 4 Sydney 
Terrace, and afterwards in Green Park Buildings. 
I do not know whether they were at all attracted 
to Bath by the circumstance that Mrs. Austen’s 
only brother, Mr. Leigh Perrot, spent part of 
every year there. The name of Perrot, together 
with a small estate at Northleigh in Oxfordshire, 
had been bequeathed to him by a great-uncle. I 
must devote a few sentences to this very old and 
now extinct branch of the Perrot family; for one 
of the last survivors, Jane Perrot, married to a 
Walker, was Jane Austen’s great-grandmother, from 
whom she derived her Christian name. The Per- 
rots were settled in Pembrokeshire, at least as early 
as the thirteenth century. They were probably 
some of the settlers whom the policy of our Planta- 
genet kings placed in that county, which thence 
acquired the name of ^‘England beyond Wales,” 
for the double purpose of keeping open a communi- 
cation with Ireland from Milford Haven, and of 
overawing the Welsh. One of the family seems 
to have carried out this latter purpose very vigor- 
ously; for it is recorded of him that he slew 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


239 


twenty-six men of Kemaes, a district of Wales, 
and one wolf. The manner in which the two 
kinds of game are classed together, and the dis- 
proportion of numbers, are remarkable ; but proba- 
bly at that time the wolves had been so closely 
killed down, that lupicide was become a more rare 
and distinguished exploit than homicide. The 
last of this family died about 1778, and their 
property was divided between Leighs and Mus- 
graves, the larger portion going to the latter. 
Mr. Leigh Perrot pulled down the mansion, and 
sold the estate to the Duke of Marlborough; and 
the name of these Perrots is now to be found only 
on some monuments in the church of Northleigh. 

Mr. Leigh Perrot was also one of several cousins 
to whom a life interest in the Stoneleigh property 
in Warwickshire was left, after the extinction of 
the earlier Leigh peerage ; but he compromised his 
claim to the succession in his lifetime. He mar- 
ried a niece of Sir Montague Cholmeley of Lin- 
colnshire. He was a man of considerable natural 
power, with much of the wit of his uncle, the Mas- 
ter of Balliol, and wrote clever epigrams and rid- 
dles, some of which, though without his name, 
found their way into print; but he lived a very 
retired life, dividing his time between Bath and 
his place in Berkshire called Scarlets. Jane’s 
letters from Bath make frequent mention of this 
uncle and aunt. 

The unfinished story now published under the 
title of ^^The Watsons” must have been written 
during the author’s residence in Bath. In the 
autumn of 1804 she spent some weeks at Lyme, 


240 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


and became acquainted with the Cobh, which she 
afterwards made memorable for the fall of Louisa 
Musgrove. In February, 1805, her father died at 
Bath, and was buried at AValcot Church. The 
widow and daughters went into lodgings for a few 
months, and then removed to Southampton. The 
only records that I can find about her during those 
four years are the three following letters to her 
sister, — one from Lyme, the others from Bath. 
They show that she went a good deal into society, 
in a quiet way, chiefly with ladies; and that her 
eyes were always open to minute traits of character 
in those with whom she associated : — 

Extract from a Letter from Jane Austen to her Sister. 

Lyme, Friday, Sept. 14 (1804). 

My dear Cassandra, — I take the first 
sheet of fine striped paper to thank you for your 
letter from Weymouth, and express my hopes of 
your being at Ibthorp before this time. I expect 
to hear that you reached it yesterday evening, 
being able to get as far as Blandford on Wednes- 
day. Your account of Weymouth contains nothing 
which strikes me so forcibly as there being no ice 
in the town. For every other vexation I was in 
some measure prepared, and particularly for your 
disappointment in not seeing the Eoyal Family go 
on board on Tuesday, having already heard from 
Mr. Crawford that he had seen you in the very 
act of being too late. But for there being no ice, 
what could prepare me? You found my letter at 
Andover, I hope, yesterday, and hr.ve now for 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


241 


many hours been satisfied that your kind anxiety 
on my behalf was as much thrown away as kind 
anxiety usually is. I continue quite well; in 
proof of which I have bathed again this morning. 
It was absolutely necessary that I should have the 
little fever and indisposition which I had; it has 
been all the fashion this week in Lyme. We are 
quite settled in our lodgings by this time, as you 
may suppose, and everything goes on in the usual 
order. The servants behave very well, and make 
no difiSculties, though nothing certainly can exceed 
the inconvenience of the offices, except the general 
dirtiness of the house and furniture and all its in- 
habitants. I endeavor, as far as I can, to supply 
your place, and be useful, and keep things in order. 
I detect dirt in the water decanters as fast as I 
can, and keep everything as it was under your ad- 
ministration. . . . The ball last night was pleas- 
ant, but not full for Thursday. My father stayed 
contentedly till half-past nine (we went a little 
after eight), and then w^alked home with James 
and a lantern, though I believe the lantern was 
not lit, as the moon was up; but sometimes this 
lantern may be a great convenience to him. My 
mother and I stayed about an hour later. Nobody 
asked me the two first dances; the two next I 
danced with Mr. Crawford, and had I chosen to 
stay longer might have danced with Mr. Gran- 
ville, Mrs. Granville’s son, whom my dear friend 
Miss A. introduced to me, or with a new odd-look- 
ing man who had been eying me for some time, 
and at last, without any introduction, asked me if 
I meant to dance again. I think he must be Irish 
16 


242 A ]VIEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


by his ease, and because I imagine him to belong 
to the hon**^ B.^s, who are son and son’s wife of an 
Irish viscount, bold, queer-looking people, just fit 
to be quality at Lyme. I called yesterday morn- 
ing (ought it not in strict propriety to be termed 
yester-morning?) on Miss A., and was introduced 
to her father and mother. Like other young ladies, 
she is considerably genteeler than her parents. 
Mrs. A. sat darning a pair of stockings the whole 
of my visit. But do not mention this at home, 
lest a warning should act as an example. We 
afterwards walked together for an hour on the 
Cobb; she is very conversable in a common way; 
I do not perceive wit or genius, but she has sense 
and some degree of taste, and her manners are 
very engaging. She seems to like people rather 
too easily. 

Yours affect^ 

J. A. 

Letter from Jane Austen to her sister Cassandra 
at Tbthorp, alluding to the sudden death of Mrs. 
Lloyd at that place; — 

25 Gat Street (Bath), Monday, 
April 8, 1805, 

My dear Cassandra, — Here is a day for 
you. Did Bath or Ibthorp ever see such an 8th 
of April? It is March and April together, — the 
glare of the one and the warmth of the other. We 
do nothing but walk about. As far as your means 
will admit, I hope you profit by such weather too. 
I dare say you are already the better for change of 
place. We were out again last night. Miss Irvine 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 243 


invited us, when I met her in the Crescent, to 
drink tea with them, but I rather declined it, hav- 
ing no idea that my mother would be disposed for 
another evening visit there so soon; but when I 
gave her the message, I found her very well in- 
clined to go; and accordingly, on leaving chapel, 
we walked to Lansdown. This morning we have 
been to see Miss Chamberlaine look hot on horse- 
back. Seven years and four months ago we went 
to the same riding-house to see Miss Lefroy’s per- 
formance ! ^ What a different set are we now mov- 
ing in ! But seven years, I suppose, are enough to 
change every pore of one’s skin and every feeling 
of one’s mind. We did not walk long in the 
Crescent yesterday. It was hot and not crowded 
enough ; so we went into the field, and passed close 
by S. T. and Miss S.^ again. I have not yet seen 
her face, but neither her dress nor air have any- 
thing of the dash or stylishness which the Browns 
talked of, — quite the contrary ; indeed, her dress 
is not even smart, and her appearance very quiet. 
Miss Irvine says she is never speaking a word. 
Poor wretch! I am afraid she is en penitence. 
Here has been that excellent Mrs. Coulthart call- 
ing while my mother was out and I was believed 
to be so. I always respected her as a good-hearted, 
friendly woman. And the Browns have been here; 
I find their afiidavits on the table. The ^^Ambus- 
cade ” reached Gibraltar on the 9th of March, and 
found all well; so say the papers. We have had 

1 Here is evidence that Jane Austen was acquainted with 
Bath before it became her residence in 1801. See p. 195. 

2 A gentleman and lady lately engaged to be married. 


244 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN 


no letters from anybody, but wo expect to bear 
from Edward to-morrow, and from you soon after- 
wards. How bappy they are at Godmersham now ! 
I shall be very glad of a letter from Ibthorp, that 
I may know bow you all are, but particularly your- 
self. This is nice weather for Mrs. J. Austen’s 
going to Speen, and I hope she will have a pleasant 
visit there. I expect a prodigious account of the 
christening dinner; perhaps it brought you at last 
into the company of Miss Dundas again. 

Tuesday, — ! received your letter last night, 
and wish it may be soon followed by another to 
say that all is over; but I cannot help thinking 
that nature will struggle again, and produce a re- 
vival. Poor woman! May her end be peaceful 
and easy as the exit we have witnessed! And I 
dare say it will. If there is no revival, suffering 
must be all over; even the consciousness of exist- 
ence, I suppose, was gone when you wrote. The 
nonsense I have been writing in this and in my last 
letter seems out of place at such a time, but I will 
not mind it; it will do you no harm, and nobody 
else will be attacked by it. 1 am heartily glad 
that you can speak so comfortably of your own 
health and looks, though I can scarcely compre- 
hend the latter being really approved. Could 
travelling fifty miles produce such an immediate 
change? You were looking very poorly here, and 
everybody seemed sensible of it. Is there a charm 
in a hack post-chaise? But if there were, Mrs. 
Craven’s carriage might have undone it all. I am 
much obliged to you for the time and trouble you 
have bestowed on Mary’s cap, and am glad it 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


245 


pleases her; but it will prove a useless gift at pres- 
ent, I suppose. Will not she leave Ibthorp on her 
mother’s death? As a companion you are all that 
Martha can be supposed to want} and in that light, 
under these circumstances, your visit will indeed 
have been well timed. 

Thursday. — I was not able to go on yesterday; 
all my wit and leisure were bestowed on letters to 
Charles and Henry. To the former I wrote in con- 
sequence of my mother’s having seen in the papers 
that the Urania” was waiting at Portsmouth for 
the convoy for Halifax. This is nice, as it is only 
three weeks ago that you wrote by the Camilla.” 
I wrote to Henry because I had a letter from him 
in which he desired to hear from me very soon. 
His to me was most affectionate and kind, as well 
as entertaining} there is no merit to him in that} he 
cannot help being amusing. He offers to meet us 
on the sea-coast, if the plan of which Edward gave 
him some hint takes place. Will not this be mak- 
ing the execution of such a plan more desirable and 
delightful than ever? He talks of the rambles we 
took together last summer with pleasing affection. 

Yours ever, 

J. A. 


From the Same to the Same. 

Gat St., Sunday Evening, 
April 21 (1805). 

Mt dear Cassandra, — I am much obliged to 
you for writing to me again so soon} your letter 
yesterday was quite an unexpected pleasure. Poor 
Mrs. Stent! it has been her lot to be always in the 


246 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


way; but we must be merciful, for perhaps in time 
we may come to be Mrs. Stents ourselves, unequal 
to anything, and unwelcome to everybody. . . . 
My morning engagement was with the Cookes, and 
our party consisted. of George and Mary, a Mr. L., 
Miss B., who had been with us at the concert, and 
the youngest Miss W. Not Julia, — we have done 
with her; she is very ill, — but Mary. Mary W. ’s 
turn is actually come to be grown up, and have a 
fine complexion, and wear great square muslin 
shawls. I have not expressly enumerated myself 
among the party; but there I was, and my cousin 
George was very kind, and talked sense to me 
every now and then, in the intervals of his more 
animated fooleries with Miss B., who is very young 
and rather handsome, and whose gracious manners, 
ready wit, and solid remarks put me somewhat in 
mind of my old acquaintance L. L. There was a 
monstrous deal of stupid quizzing and common- 
place nonsense talked, but scarcely any wit; all 
that bordered on it or on sense came from my 
cousin George, whom altogether I like very well. 
Mr. B. seems nothing more than a tall young man. 
My evening engagement and walk was with Miss 
A., who had called on me the day before, and 
gently upbraided me in her turn with a change of 
manners to her since she had been in Bath, or at 
least of late. Unlucky me! that my notice should 
be of such consequence, and my manners so bad! 
She was so well disposed and so reasonable that I 
soon forgave her, and made this engagement with 
her in proof of it. She is really an agreeable girl, 
so I think I may like her; and her great want of a 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


247 


companion at home, which may well make any 
tolerable acquaintance important to her, gives her 
another claim on my attention. I shall endeavor 
as much as possible to keep my intimacies in their 
proper place, and prevent their clashing. Among 
so many friends, it will be well if I do not get 
into a scrape; and now here is Miss Blashford 
come. I should have gone distracted if the Bullers 
had stayed. . . . When I tell you I have been vis- 
iting a countess this morning, you will imme- 
diately, with great justice but no truth, guess 
it to be Lady Boden. No: it is Lady Leven, 
the mother of Lord Balgonie. On receiving a 
message from Lord and Lady Leven through the 
Mackays, declaring their intention of waiting on 
'IS, we thought it right to go to them. I hope we 
Jave not done too much; but the friends and 
admirers of Charles must be attended to. They 
seem very reasonable, good sort of people, very 
civil, and full of his praise.^ We were shown at 
first into an empty drawing-room; and presently in 
came his lordship, not knowing who we were, to 
apologize for the servant’s mistake, and to say 
himself what was untrue, that Lady Leven was not 
within. He is a tall, gentlemanlike-looking man, 
with spectacles, and rather deaf. After sitting 
with him ten minutes, we walked away; but Lady 
Leven coming out of the dining-parlor as we passed 
the door, we were obliged to attend her back to it, 
and pay our visit over again. She is a stout 

1 It seems that Charles Austen, then first-lieutenant of the 
“ Endymion,” had had an opportunity of showing attention 
and kindness to some of Lord Leven’s family. 


248 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


woman, with a very handsome face. By this 
means we had the pleasure of hearing Charles’s 
praises twice over. They think themselves exces- 
sively obliged to him, and estimate him so highly 
as to wish Lord Balgonie, when he is quite 
recovered, to go out to him. There is a pretty 
little Lady Marianne of the party, to he shaken 
hands with, and asked if she remembered Mr. 
Austen. . . . 

I shall write to Charles by the next packet, 
unless you tell me in the mean time of your 
intending to do it. 

Believe me, if you chuse, 

Y" aff*® Sister. 

Jane did not estimate too highly the ‘^Cousin 
George ” mentioned in the foregoing letter, who 
might easily have been superior in sense and wit 
to the rest of the party. He was the Bev. George 
Leigh Cooke, long known and respected at Oxford, 
where he held importaiit offices, and had the pri- 
vilege of helping to form the minds of men more 
eminent than himself. As Tutor in Corpus Christi 
College, he became instructor to some of the most 
distinguished undergraduates of that time ; amongst 
others to Dr. Arnold, the Rev. John Kehle, and 
Sir John Coleridge. The latter has mentioned 
him in terms of affectionate regard, both in his 
Memoir of Kehle, and in a letter which appears in 
Dean Stanley’s ^‘Life of Arnold.” Mr. Cooke 
was also an impressive preacher of earnest, awak- 
ening sermons. I remember to have heard it 
observed by some of my undergraduate friends that, 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 249 


after all, there was more good to be got from 
George Cooke’s plain sermons than from much of 
the more labored oratory of the University pulpit. 
He was frequently Examiner in the schools, and 
occupied the chair of the Sedleian Professor of 
Natural Philosophy, from 1810 to 1853. 

Before the end of 1805, the little family party 
removed to Southampton. They resided in a com- 
modious old-fashioned house in a corner of Castle 
Square. 

I have no letters of my aunt, nor any other 
record of her, during her four years’ residence at 
Southampton; and though I now began to know, 
and, what was the same thing, to love her myself, 
yet my observations were only those of a young 
boy, and were not capable of penetrating her char- 
acter or estimating her powers. I have, however, 
a lively recollection of some local circumstances at 
Southampton, and as they refer chiefly to things 
which have been long ago swept away, I will 
record them. My grandmother’s house had a 
pleasant garden, bounded on one side by the old 
city walls; the top of this wall was sufficiently 
wide to afford a pleasant walk, with an extensive 
view, easily accessible to ladies by steps. This 
must have been a part of the identical walls which 
witnessed the embarkation of Henry V. before the 
battle of Agincourt, and the detection of the con- 
spiracy of Cambridge, Scroop, and Grey, which 
Shakspeare has made so picturesque ; when, accord 
ing to the chorus in Henry V., the citizens saw 

" The well-appointed King at Hampton Pier 
Embark his royalty.” 


250 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


Among the records of the town of Southampton, 
they have a minute and authentic account, drawn 
up at that time, of the encampment of Henry V. 
near the town, before his emharkment for France. 
It is remarkable that the place where the army 
was encamped, then a low level plain, is now 
entirely covered by the sea, and is called West- 
port.^ At that time Castle Square was occupied 
by a fantastic edifice, too large for the space in 
which it stood, though too small to accord well 
with its castellated style, erected by the second 
Marquis of Lansdowne, half-brother to the well- 
known statesman, who succeeded him in the title. 
The Marchioness had a light phaeton, drawn by 
six, and sometimes by eight, little ponies, — each 
pair decreasing in size, and becoming lighter in 
color, through all the grades of dark brown, light 
brown, bay, and chestnut, as it was placed farther 
away from the carriage. The two leading pairs 
were managed by two boyish postilions, the two 
pairs nearest to the carriage were driven in hand. 
It was a delight to me to look down from the win- 
dow and see this fairy equipage put together; for 
the premises of this castle were so contracted that 
the whole process went on in the little space that 
remained of the open square. Like other fairy 
works, however, it all proved evanescent. Not 
only carriage and ponies, but castle itself, soon 
vanished away, ‘Mike the baseless fabric of a 
vision. ’’ On the death of the Marquis, in 1809, 
the castle was pulled down. Few probably remem- 
ber its existence; and any one who might visit the 
1 See Wharton’s note to Johnson and Steevens’s Shakspeare. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 251 

place now would wonder how it ever could have 
stood there. 

In 1809 Mr. Knight was able to offer bis mother 
the choice of two houses on his property, — one near 
his usual residence at Godmersham Park in Kent; 
the other near Chawton House, his occasional resi- 
dence in Hampshire. The latter was chosen; and 
in that year the mother and daughters, together 
with Miss Lloyd, a near connection who lived 
with them, settled themselves at Chawton Cottage. 

Chawton may he called the second, as well as 
the last home of Jane Austen; for during the 
temporary residences of the party at Bath and 
Southampton she was only a sojourner in a strange 
land; hut here she found a real home amongst her 
own people. It so happened that during her resi- 
dence at Chawton circumstances brought several 
of her brothers and their families within easy 
distance of the house. Chawton must also be con- 
sidered the place most closely connected with her 
career as a writer; for there it was that, in the 
maturity of her mind, she either wrote or rear- 
ranged and prepared for publication the books by 
which she has become known to the world. This 
was the home where, after a few years, while still 
in the prime of life, she began to droop and wither 
away, and which she left only in the last stage of 
her illness, yielding to the persuasion of friends 
hoping against hope. 

This house stood in the village of Chawton, 
about a mile from Alton, on the right-hand side, 
just where the road to Winchester branches off 
from that to Gosport. It was so close to the roaJ 


252 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


that the front door opened upon it; while a very 
narrow enclosure, paled in on each side, protected 
the building from danger of collision with any 
runaway vehicle. I believe it had been originally 
built for an inn, for which purpose it was certainly 
well situated. Afterwards it had been occupied 
by Mr. Knight’s steward; but by some additions 
to the house, and some judicious planting and 
screening, it was made a pleasant and commodious 
abode. Mr. Knight was experienced and adroit 
at such arrangements, and this was a labor of love 
to him. A good-sized entrance and two sitting- 
rooms made the length of the house, all intended 
originally to look upon the road, but the large 
drawing-room window was blocked up and turned 
into a bookcase, and another opened at the side 
which gave to view only turf and trees, as a high 
wooden fence and hornbeam hedge shut out the 
Winchester road, which skirted the whole length 
of the little domain. Trees were planted each side 
to form a shrubbery walk, carried round the en- 
closure, which gave a sufficient space for ladies’ 
exercise. There was a pleasant irregular mixture 
of hedgerow and gravel walk and orchard, and 
long grass for mowing, arising from two or three 
little enclosures having been thrown together. 
The house itself was quite as good as the generality 
of parsonage-houses then were, and much in the 
same style; and was capable of receiving other 
members of the family as frequent visitors. It 
was sufficiently well furnished; everything inside 
and out was kept in good repair, and it was alto- 
gether a comfortable and ladylike establishment, 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


253 


though the means which supported it were not 
large. 

I give this description because some interest is 
generally taken in the residence of a popular 
writer. Cowper’s unattractive house in the street 
of Olney has been pointed out to visitors, and has 
even attained the honor of an engraving in 
Southey’s edition of his works; but I cannot re- 
commend any admirer of Jane Austen to under- 
take a pilgrimage to this spot. The building 
indeed still stands, but it has lost all that gave it 
its character. After the death of Mrs. Cassandra 
Austen, in 1845, it was divided into tenements 
for laborers, and the grounds reverted to ordi- 
nary uses. 


254 A MEMOIE OF JAI5E AUSTEN. 


CHAPTER V. 

Description of Jane Austen’s Person, Character, 
AND Tastes. 

As my memoir lias now reached the period when 
I saw a great deal of my aunt, and was old enough 
to understand something of her value, I will here 
attempt a description of her person, mind, and 
habits. In person she was very attractive; her 
figure was rather tall and slender, her step light 
and firm, and her whole appearance expressive of 
health and animation. In complexion she was a 
clear brunette with a rich colors she had full 
round cheeks, with mouth and nose small and well 
formed, bright hazel eyes, and brown hair forming 
natural curls close round her face. If not so regu- 
larly handsome as her sister, yet her countenance 
had a peculiar charm of its own to the eyes of 
most beholders. At the time of which I am now 
writing, she never was seen, either morning or even- 
ing, without a cap; I believe that she and her sister 
were generally thought to have taken to the garb 
of middle age earlier than their years or their 
looks required; and that, though remarkably neat in 
their dress as in all their ways, they were scarcely 
sufficiently regardful of the fashionable or the 
becoming. 

She was not highly accomplished according to 
the present standard. Her sister drew well, and 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 255 


it is from a drawing of hers that the likeness pre- 
fixed to this volume has been taken. Jane herself 
was fond of music, and had a sweet voice, both in 
singing and in conversation; in her youth she had 
received some instruction on the pianoforte; and 
at Chawton she practised daily, chiefly before 
breakfast. I believe she did so partly that she 
might not disturb the rest of the party, who were 
less fond of music. In the evening she would 
sometimes sing, to her own accompaniment, some 
simple old songs, the words and airs of which, 
now never heard, still linger in my memory. 

She read French with facility, and knew some- 
thing of Italian. In those days German was 
no more thought of than Hindostanee, as part of 
a lady’s education. In history she followed the 
old guides, — Goldsmith, Hume, and Robertson. 
Critical inquiry into the usually received state- 
ments of the old historians was scarcely begun. 
The history of the early kings of Rome had not 
yet been dissolved into legend. Historic charac- 
ters lay before the reader’s eyes in broad light or 
shade, not much broken up by details. The vir- 
tues of King Henry VIII. were yet undiscovered, 
nor had much light been thrown on the inconsist- 
encies of Queen Elizabeth; the one was held to be 
an unmitigated tyrant and an embodied Blue 
Beard, the other a perfect model of wisdom and 
policy. Jane, when a girl, had strong political 
opinions, especially about the affairs of the six- 
teenth and seventeenth centuries. She was a ve- 
hement defender of Charles I. and his grandmother 
Mary; but I think it was rather from an impulse of 


256 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


feeling than from any inquiry into the evidences 
by which they must he condemned or acquitted. 
As she grew up, the politics of the day occupied 
very little of her attention; but she probably 
shared the feeling of moderate Toryism which 
prevailed in her family. She was well acquainted 
with the old periodicals from the Spectator ’’ 
downwards. Her knowledge of Eichardson’s 
works was such as no one is likely again to ac- 
quire, now that the multitude and the merits of 
our light literature have called off the attention of 
readers from that great master. Every circum- 
stance narrated in ‘‘Sir Charles Grandison,’’ all 
that was ever said or done in the cedar parlor, 
was familiar to her; and the wedding days 
of Lady L. and Lady G. were as well remem- 
bered as if they had been living friends. Amongst 
her favorite writers, Johnson in prose, Crabbe in 
verse, and Cowper in both, stood high. It is well 
that the native good taste of herself and (rf those 
with whom she lived, saved her from the snare 
into which a sister novelist had fallen, of imitat- 
ing the grandiloquent style of Johnson. She 
thoroughly enjoyed Crabbe, perhaps on account of 
a certain resemblance to herself in minute and 
highly finished detail; and would sometimes say, 
in jest, that if she ever married at all, she could 
fancy being Mrs. Crabbe, looking on the author 
quite as an abstract idea, and ignorant and regard- 
less what manner of man he might be. Scott^s 
poetry gave her great pleasure ; she did not live to 
make much acquaintance with his novels. Only 
three of them were published before her death; 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 257 


but it will be seen by the following extract from 
one of her letters, that she was quite prepared to 
admit the merits of Waverley ; and it is re- 
markable that, living, as she did, far apart from 
the gossip of the literary world, she should even 
then have spoken so confidently of his being the 
author of it: — 

‘^Walter Scott has no business to write novels, 
especially good ones. It is not fair. He has fame 
and profit enough as a poet, and ought not to he 
taking the bread out of other people’s mouths. I 
do not mean to like ‘Waverley,’ if I can help it, 
but I fear I must. I am quite determined, how- 
ever, not to be pleased with Mrs. ’s, should 

I ever meet with it, which I hope I may not. I 
think I can be stout against anything written by 
her. I have made up my mind to like no novels 
really, hut Miss Edgeworth’s, E.’s, and my own.” 

It was not, however, what she knew, but what 
she was, that distinguished her from others. I 
cannot better describe the fascination Avhich she 
exercised over children than by quoting the words 
of two of her nieces. One says : — 

As a very little girl, I was always creeping up 
to Aunt Jane, and following her whenever I could, 
in the house and out of it. I might not have re- 
membered this hut for the recollection of my 
mother’s telling me privately, that I must not he 
troublesome to my aunt. Her first charm to children 
was great sweetness of manner : she seemed to love 
you, and you loved her in return. This, as well as I 
can now recollect, was what I felt in my early 
days, before I was old enough to be amused by her 
17 


258 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


cleverness. But soon came the delight of her 
playful talk. She could make everything amus- 
ing to a child. Then, as I got older, when cousins 
came to share the entertainment, she would tell 
us the most delightful stories, chiefly of Fairyland, 
and her fairies had all characters of their own. 
The tale was invented, I am sure, at the moment, 
and was continued for two or three days if occa- 
sion served.” 

Again: *^When staying at Chawton, with two 
of her other nieces, we often had amusements in 
which my aunt was very helpful. Slie was the 
one to whom we always looked for help. She 
would furnish us with what we wanted from her 
wardrobe; and she would be the entertaining 
visitor in our make-believe house. She amused 
us in various ways. Once, I remember, in giving 
a conversation as between myself and my two 
cousins, supposing we were all grown up, the day 
after a ball.” 

Very similar is the testimony of another niece: 
^^Aunt Jane was the general favorite with chil- 
dren ; her ways with them being so playful, and her 
long circumstantial stories so delightful. These 
were continued from time to time, and were begged 
for on all possible and impossible occasions ; woven, 
as she proceeded, out of nothing but her own happy 
talent for invention. Ah, if but one of them could 
be recovered! And again, as I grew older, when 
the original seventeen years between our ages 
seemed to shrink to seven, or to nothing, it comes 
back to me now how strangely I missed her. It had 
become so much a habit with me to put by things 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 259 

in my mind with a reference to her, and to say to 
myself, I shall keep this for Aunt Jane.’’ 

A nephew of hers used to observe that his visits 
to Chawton, after the death of his Aunt Jane, were 
always a disappointment to him. From old asso- 
ciations he could not help expecting to be particu- 
larly happy in that house; and never till he got 
there could he realize to himself how all its pecu- 
liar charm was gone. It was not only that the chief 
light in the house was quenched, but that the loss 
of it had cast a shade over the spirits of the sur- 
vivors. Enough has been said to show her love 
for children, and her wonderful power of entertain- 
ing them; but her friends of all ages felt her en- 
livening influence. Her unusually quick sense of 
the ridiculous led her to play with all the common- 
places of everyday life, whether as regarded persons 
or things; but she never played with its serious 
duties or responsibilities, nor did she ever turn in- 
dividuals into ridicule. With all her neighbors 
in the village she was on friendly, though not on 
intimate, terms. She took a kindly interest in 
all their proceedings, and liked to hear about 
them. They often served for her amusement; but 
it was her own nonsense that gave zest to the gos- 
sip. She was as far as possible from being cen- 
sorious or satirical. She never abused them or 
quizzed them, — that was the word of the day ; an 
ugly word, now obsolete; and the ugly practice 
which it expressed is much less prevalent now than 
it was then. The laugh which she occasionally 
raised was by imagining for her neighbors, as she 
was equally ready to imagine for her friends or 


260 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


herself, impossible contingencies, or by relating in 
prose or verse some trifling anecdote colored to her 
own fancy, or in writing a fictitious history of 
what they were supposed to have said or done, 
which could deceive nobody. 

The following specimens may be given of the live- 
liness of mind which imparted an agreeable flavor 
both to her correspondence and her conversation : — 

On Reading in the Newspapers the Marriage of 
Mr. Gell, to Miss Gill, of Eastbourne. 

At Eastbourne Mr. Gell, From being perfectly well, 

Became dreadfully ill, For love of Miss Gill. 

So he said, with some sighs, I 'ra the slave of your it's ; 

Oh, restore, if you please, By accepting my ees ! 

On the Marriage of a Middle-aged Flirt with a Mr. 

Wake, avhom, it was supposed, sue would scarcely 

HAVE accepted IN HER YoUTH. 

Maria, good-humored and handsome and tall. 

For a husband was at her last stake j 
And having in vain danced at many a ball. 

Is now happy to jump at a Wake. 

Jane Austen was successful in everything that 
she attempted with her fingers. None of us could 
throw spilikins in so perfect a circle, or take them 
off with so steady a hand. Her performances with 
cup and ball were marvellous. The one used 
at Chawton was an easy one, and she has been 
known to catch it on the point above an hundred 
times in succession, till her hand was weary. She 
sometimes found a resource in that simple game, 
when unable, from weakness in her eyes, to read 
or write long together. Happy would the com- 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


261 


positors for the press he if they had always so legi- 
ble a manuscript to work from. But the writ- 
ing was not the only part of her letters which 
showed superior handiwork. In those days there 
was an art in folding and sealing. No adhesive 
envelopes made all easy. Some people’s letters 
alwa3^s looked loose and untidy ; hut her paper was 
sure to take the right folds, and her sealing-wax 
to drop into the right place. Her needlework, both 
plain and ornamental, was excellent, and might al- 
most have put a sewing-machine to shame. She 
was considered especially great in satin stitch. 
She spent much time in these occupations, and 
some of her merriest talk was over clothes which 
she and her companions were making, — sometimes 
for themselves, and sometimes for the poor. There 
still remains a curious specimen of her needlework 
made for a sister-in-law, my mother. In a very 
small bag is deposited a little rolled-up housewife, 
furnished with minikin needles and fine thread. 
In the housewife is a tiny pocket, and in the 
pocket is enclosed a slip of paper, on which, writ- 
ten as with a crow-quill, are these lines : — 

" This little bag, I hope, will prove 
To be not vainly made ; 

For should you thread and needles want, 

It will afford you aid. 

“ And, as we are about to part, 

’T will serve another end ; 

For when you look upon this bag. 

You’ll recollect your friend.” 

It is the kind of article that some benevolent fairy 
might be supposed to give as a reward to a diligent 


262 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


little girl. The whole is of flowered silk, and 
having been never used and carefully preserved, 
it is as fresh and bright as when it was first made, 
seventy years ago; and shows that the same hand 
which painted so exquisitely with the pen could 
work as delicately with the needle. 

I have collected some of the bright qualities 
which shone, as it were, on the surface of Jane 
Austen’s character, and attracted most notice; but 
underneath them there lay the strong foundations 
of sound sense and judgment, rectitude of princi- 
ple, and delicacy of feeling, qualifying her equally 
to advise, assist, or amuse. She was, in fact, as 
ready to comfort the unhappy or to nurse the sick 
as she was to laugh and jest with the light-hearted. 
Two of her nieces were grown up, and one of them 
was married, before she was taken away from them. 
As their minds became more matured, they were 
admitted into closer intimacy with her, and learned 
more of her graver thoughts; they know what a 
sympathizing friend and judicious adviser they 
found her to be in many little difficulties and 
doubts of early womanhood. 

I do not venture to speak of her religious prin- 
ciples : that is a subject on which she herself was 
more inclined to think and act than to talk, and I 
shall imitate her reserve; satisfied to have shown 
how much of Christian love and humility abounded 
in her heart, without presuming to lay bare the 
roots whence those graces grew. Some little in- 
sight, however, into these deeper recesses of the 
heart must be given, when we come to speak of 
her death. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


263 


CHAPTER VI. 

Seclusion from the Literary World — Notice from thh 
Prince Regent — Correspondence with Mr. Clarke — 
Suggestions to alter her Style of Writing. 

Jane Austen lived in entire seclusion from the 
literary world ; neither by correspondence nor by 
personal intercourse was she known to any contem- 
porary authors. It is probable that she never was 
in company with any person whose talents or whose 
celebrity equalled her own; so that her powers 
never could have been sharpened by collision with 
superior intellects, nor her imagination aided by 
their casual suggestions. Whatever she produced 
was a genuine home-made article. Even during 
the last two or three years of her life, when her 
works were rising in the estimation of the public, 
they did not enlarge the circle of her acquaintance. 
Few of her readers knew even her name, and none 
knew more of her than her name. I doubt whether 
it would be possible to mention any other author 
of note whose personal obscurity was so complete. 
I can think of none like her, but of many to con- 
trast with her in that respect. Fanny Burney, 
afterwards Madame D’Arblay, was at an early age 
petted by Dr. Johnson, and introduced to the wits 
and scholars of the day at the tables of Mrs. Thrale 
and Sir Joshua Reynolds. Anna Seward, in her 


264 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


self-constituted shrine at Lichfield, would have 
been miserable, had she not trusted that the eyes 
of all lovers of poetry were devoutly fixed on her. 
Joanna Baillie and Maria Edgeworth were indeed 
far from courting publicity; they loved the pri- 
vacy of their own families, one with her brother 
and sister in their Hampstead villa, the other in 
her more distant retreat in Ireland; but fame pur- 
sued them, and they were the favorite correspon- 
dents of Sir Walter Scott. Crabbe, who was usually 
buried in a country parish, yet sometimes visited 
London, and dined at Holland House, and was re- 
ceived as a fellow-poet by Campbell, Moore, and 
Rogers; and on one memorable occasion he was 
Scott’s guest at Edinburgh, and gazed with won- 
dering eyes on the incongruous pageantry with 
which George IV. was entertained in that city. 
Even those great writers who hid themselves 
amongst lakes and mountains associated with each 
other, and, though little seen by the world, were so 
much in its thoughts that a new term, Lakers,” 
was coined to designate them. The chief part of 
Charlotte Bronte’s life was spent in a wild solitude 
compared with which Steventon and Chawton 
might be considered to be in the gay world; and 
yet she attained to personal distinction which 
never fell to Jane’s lot. When she visited her 
kind publisher in London, literary men and women 
were invited purposely to meet her ; Thackeray be- 
stowed upon her the honor of his notice ; and once 
in Willis’s Rooms, ^ she had to walk sh}’’ and trem- 
bling through an avenue of lords and ladies, drawn 
1 See Mrs. Gaskell’s “ Life of Miss Broute/’ vol. ii. p. 215.. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 265 


up for the purpose of gazing at the author of Jane 
Eyre.’’ Miss Mitford, too, lived quietly in <‘Our 
Village,” devoting her time and talents to the 
benefit of a father scarcely worthy of her 5 but she 
did not live there unknown. Her tragedies gave 
her a name in London. She numbered Milman and 
Talfourd amongst her correspondents; and her 
works were a passport to the society of many who 
would not otherwise have sought her. Hundreds 
admired Miss Mitford on account of her writings 
for one who ever connected the idea of Miss Aus- 
ten with the press. A few years ago, a gentle- 
man visiting Winchester Cathedral desired to be 
shown Miss Austen’s grave. The verger, as he 
pointed it out, asked, ^^Pray, sir, can you tell me 
whetlier there was anything particular about that 
lady? so many people want to know where she was 
buried! ” During her life the ignorance of the ver- 
ger was shared by most people; few knew that 
there was anything particular about that lady.” 
It was not till towards the close of her life, when 
the last of the works that she saw published was 
in the press, that she received the only mark of 
distinction ever bestowed upon her; and that was 
remarkable for the high quarter whence it ema- 
nated rather than for any actual increase of fame 
that it conferred. It happened thus. In the 
autumn of 1815 she nursed her brother Henry 
through a dangerous fever and slow convalescence 
at his house in Hans Place. He was attended by 
one of the Prince Regent’s physicians. All at- 
tempts to keep her name secret had at this time 
ceased, and though it had never appeared on a title- 


266 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


page, all who cared to know might easily learn it; 
and the friendly physician was aware that his pa- 
tient’s nurse was the author of Pride and Preju- 
dice.” Accordingly he informed her one day that 
the Prince was a great admirer of her novels; that he 
read them often, and kept a set in every one of his 
residences; that he himself therefore had thought 
it right to inform his Royal Highness that Miss 
Austen was staying in London, and that the Prince 
had desired Mr. Clarke, the librarian of Carlton 
House, to wait upon her. The next day Mr. Clarke 
made his appearance, and invited her to Carlton 
House, saying that he had the Prince’s instructions 
to show her the library and other apartments, and 
to pay her every possible attention. The invita- 
tion was of course accepted, and during the visit 
to Carlton House Mr. Clarke declared himself com- 
missioned to say that if Miss Austen had any other 
novel forthcoming she was at liberty to dedicate it 
to the Prince. Accordingly such a dedication was 
immediately prefixed to ‘‘Emma,” which was at 
that time in the press. 

Mr. Clarke was the brother of Dr. Clarke, the 
traveller and mineralogist, whose life has been 
written by Bishop Otter. Jane found in him not 
only a very courteous gentleman, but also a warm 
admirer of her talents ; though it will be seen by 
his letters that he did not clearly apprehend the 
limits of her powers, or the proper field for their 
exercise. The following correspondence took place 
between them. 

Peeling some apprehension lest she should make 
a mistake in acting on the verbal permission which 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 267 


she had received from the Prince, Jane addressed 
the following letter to Mr. Clarke: — 

Nov. 15, 1815. 

Sir, — I must take the liberty of asking you a 
question. Among the many flattering attentions 
which I received from you at Carlton House on 
Monday last was the information of my being at 
liberty to dedicate any future work to His Royal 
Highness the Prince Regent, without the necessity 
of any solicitation on my part. Such, at least, I 
believed to be your words ; but as I am very anxious 
to be quite certain of what was intended, I entreat 
you to have the goodness to inform me how such a 
permission is to be understood, and whether it is 
incumbent on me to show my sense of the honor 
by inscribing the work now in the press to His 
Royal Highness; I should be equally concerned to 
appear either presumptuous or ungrateful. 

The following gracious answer was returned by 
Mr. Clarke, together with a suggestion which 
must have been received with some surprise : — 

Carlton House, Nov. 16, 1815. 

Dear Madam, — It is certainly not ineam- 
bent on you to dedicate your work now in the press 
to His Royal Highness; but if you wish to do the 
Regent that honor either now or at any future 
period I am happy to send you that permission, 
which need not require any more trouble or solici- 
tation on your part. 

Your late works, Madam, and in particular 


268 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


Mansfield Park/' reflect the highest honor on 
your genius and your principles. In every new 
work your mind seems to increase its energy and 
power of discrimination. The Pegent has read 
and admired all your publications. 

Accept my best thanks for the pleasure your 
volumes have given me. In the perusal of them I 
felt a great inclination to write and say so. And 
I also, dear Madam, wished to be allowed to ask 
you to delineate in some future work the habits of 
life, and character, and enthusiasm of a clergyman 
who should pass his time between the metropolis 
and the country, who should be something like 
Beattie's Minstrel, — 

Silent when glad, affectionate tho’ shy, 

And in his looks was most demurely sad ; 

And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why. 

Neither Goldsmith, nor La Fontaine in his Ta- 
bleau de Famille," have in mj’- mind quite deline- 
ated an English clergyman, at least of the present 
day, fond of and entirely engaged in literature, no 
man's enemy but his own. Pray, dear Madam, 
think of these things. 

Believe me at all times with sincerity and respect, 
Your faithful and obliged servant, 

J. S. Clakke, Librarian. 

The following letter, written in reply, will show 
how unequal the author of Pride and Prejudice" 
felt herself to delineating an enthusiastic clergy- 
man of the present day, who should resemble 
Beattie's Minstrel ; — 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


269 


Dec, 11. 

Dear Sir, — My is now so near 

publication that I feel it right to assure you of my 
not having forgotten your kind recommendation of 
an early copy for Carlton House, and that I have 
Mr. Murray’s promise of its being sent to His 
Royal Highness, under cover to you, three days 
previous to the work being really out. I must 
make use of this opportunity to thank you, dear 
Sir, for the very high praise you bestow on my 
other novels. I am too vain to wish to convince 
you that you have praised them beyond their 
merits. My greatest anxiety at present is that 
this fourth work should not disgrace what was 
good in the others. But on this point I will do 
myself the justice to declare that, whatever may 
be my wishes for its success, I am strongly 
haunted with the idea that to those readers who 
have preferred Pride and Prejudice” it will ap- 
pear inferior in wit, and to those who have pre- 
ferred Mansfield Park” inferior in good sense. 
Such as it is, however, I hope you will do me the 
favor of accepting a copy. Mr. Murray will have 
directions for sending one. I am quite honored 
by your thinking me capable of drawing such a 
clergyman as you gave the sketch of in your note 
of Nov. 16th. But I assure you I am not. The 
comic part of the character I might be equal to, 
but not the good, the enthusiastic, the literary. 
Such a man’s conversation must at times be on 
subjects of science and philosophy, of which I 
know nothing; or at least be occasionally abundant 
in quotations and allusions which a woman who, 


270 A MEMOIR OE JANE AUSTEN. 


like me, knows only her own mother tongue, and 
has read little in that, would he totally without 
the power of giving. A classical education, or at 
any rate a very extensive acquaintance with Eng- 
lish literature, ancient and modern, appears to me 
quite indispensable for the person who would do 
any justice to your clergyman; and I think I may 
boast myself to he, with all possible vanity, the 
most unlearned and uninformed female who ever 
dared to be an authoress. 

Believe me, dear Sir, 

Your obliged and faithful hum^^ Ser*, 

Jane Austen. ^ 

Mr. Clarke, however, was not to be discouraged 
from proposing another subject. He had recently 
been appointed chaplain and private English secre- 
tary to Prince Leopold, who was then about to be 
united to the Princess Charlotte; and when he 
again wrote to express the gracious thanks of the 
Prince E-egent for the copy of Emma ’’ which had 
been presented, he suggests that ‘^an historical 
romance illustrative of the august House of Cobourg 
would just now be very interesting,’’ and might 
very properly be dedicated to Prince Leopold. 
This was much as if Sir William Boss had been 
set to paint a great battle-piece ; and it is amusing 
to see with what grave civility she declined a 


1 It was her pleasure to boast of greater ignorance than 
she had any just claim to. She knew more than her mother 
tongue, for she knew a good deal of French and a little of 
Italian. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 271 


proposal which must have struck her as ludicrous, 
in the following letter : — 

My dear Sir, — I am honored by the Prince's 
thanks, and very much obliged to yourself for the 
kind manner in which you mention the work. I 
have also to acknowledge a former letter forwarded 
to me from Hans Place. I assure you I felt very 
grateful for the friendly tenor of it, and hope my 
silence will have been considered, as it was truly 
meant, to proceed only from an unwillingness to 
tax your time with idle thanks. Under every in- 
teresting circumstance which your own talents and 
literary labors have placed you in, or the favor 
of the E-egent bestowed, you have my best wishes. 
Your recent appointments, I hope, are a step to 
something still better. In my opinion, the ser- 
vice of a court can hardly be too well paid, for 
immense must be the sacrifice of time and feeling 
required by it. 

You are very kind in your hints as to the sort 
of composition which might recommend me at 
present, and I am fully sensible that an historical 
romance, founded on the House of Saxe Cobourg, 
might be much more to the purpose of profit or 
popularity than such pictures of domestic life in 
country villages as I deal in. But I could no 
more write a romance than an epic poem. I could 
not sit seriously down to write a serious romance 
under any other motive than to save my life; and 
if it were indispensable for me to keep it up and 
never relax into laughing at myself or at other 
people, I am sure I should be hung before I had 


272 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


finished the first chapter. No, I must keep to my 
own style and go on in my own way; and though 
I may never succeed again in that, I am convinced 
that I should totally fail in any other. 

I remain, my dear Sir, 

Your very much obliged and sincere friend, 

J. Austen. 

Chawton, near Alton, April 1, 1816. 

Mr. Clarke should have recollected the warning 
of the wise man, Force not the course of the 
river. If you divert it from the channel in 
which nature taught it to flow, and force it into 
one arbitrarily cut by yourself, you will lose its 
grace and beauty. 

But when his free course is not hindered, 

He makes sweet music with the enamelled stones. 
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge 
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage ; 

And so by many winding nooks he strays 
With willing sport. 

All writers of fiction who have genius strong 
enough to work out a course of their own resist 
every attempt to interfere with its direction. No 
two writers could he more unlike each other than 
Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte, — so much so 
that the latter was unable to understand why the for- 
mer was admired, and confessed that she herself 

should hardly like to live with her ladies and 
gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses ; ’’ 
but each writer equally resisted interference with 
her own natural style of composition. Miso 
Bronte, in reply to a friendly critic, who had 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


273 


warned her against being too melodramatic, and 
had ventured to propose Miss Austen’s works to 
her as a study, writes thus : — 

^‘Whenever I do write another book, I think I 
will have nothing of what you call ^melodrama.’ 
I think so, hut I am not sure. I think, too, I will 
endeavor to follow the counsel which shines out of 
Miss Austen’s ^mild eyes,’ to finish more, and 
be more subdued; but neither am I sure of that. 
When authors write best, or at least when they 
write most fluently, an influence seems to waken 
in them which becomes their master, — which will 
have its way, — putting out of view all behests but 
its own, dictating certain words, and insisting on 
their being used, whether vehement or measured 
in their nature, new-moulding characters, giving 
unthought-of turns to incidents, rejecting carefully 
elaborated old ideas, and suddenly creating and 
adopting new ones. Is it not so? And should 
we try to counteract this influence? Can we 
indeed counteract it? ” ^ 

The playful raillery with which the one parries 
an attack on her liberty, and the vehement elo- 
quence of the other in pleading the same cause and 
maintaining the independence of genius, are very 
characteristic of the minds of the respective 
writers. 

The suggestions which Jane received as to the 
sort of story that she ought to write were, how- 
ever, an amusement to her, though they were not 
likely to prove useful; and she has left amongst 
her papers one entitled “Plan of a novel accord- 

1 Mrs. Gaskell’s “Life of Miss Bronte,” vol. ii. p. 53. 

18 


274 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


ing to hints from various quarters.’’ The names of 
some of those advisers are written on the mar- 
gin of the manuscript, opposite to their respective 
suggestions. 

Heroine to he the daughter of a clergyman, 
who after having lived much in the world had 
retired from it, and settled on a curacy with a 
very small fortune of his own. The most excel- 
lent man that can be imagined, perfect in charac- 
ter, temper, and manner, without the smallest 
drawback or peculiarity to prevent his being the 
most delightful companion to his daughter from 
one year’s end to the other. Heroine faultless in 
character, beautiful in person, and possessing 
every possible accomplishment. Book to open 
with father and daughter conversing in long 
speeches, elegant language, and a tone of high 
serious sentiment. The father induced, at his 
daughter’s earnest request, to relate to her the 
past events of his life. Narrative to reach 
through the greater part of the first volume; as, 
besides all the circumstances of his attachment to 
her mother, and their marriage, it will compre- 
hend his going to sea as chaplain to a distin- 
guished naval character about the court; and his 
going afterwards to court himself, which involved 
him in many interesting situations, concluding 
with his opinion of the benefits of tithes being 
done away with. . . . From this outset the story 
will proceed, and contain a striking variety of 
adventures. Father an exemplary parish priest, 
and devoted to literature; hut heroine and father 
never above a fortnight in one place, — he being 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 275 


driven from his curacy by the vile arts of some 
totally unprincipled and heartless young man, 
desperately in love with the heroine, and pursu- 
ing her with unrelenting passion. No sooner set- 
tled in one country of Europe than they are 
compelled to quit it and retire to another, always 
making new acquaintance, and always obliged to 
leave them. This will of course exhibit a wide 
variety of character. The scene will he forever 
shifting from one set of people to another, but 
there will be no mixture; all the good will he un- 
exceptionable in every respect. There will be no 
foibles or weaknesses but with the wicked, who 
will he completely depraved and infamous, hardly 
a resemblance of humanity left in them. Early in 
her career the heroine must meet with the hero: 
all perfection, of course, and only prevented from 
paying his 'addresses to her by some excess of re- 
finement. Wherever she goes, somebody falls in 
love with her, and she receives repeated offers of 
marriage, which she refers wholly to her father, 
exceedingly angry that he should not he the first 
applied to. Often carried away by the anti-hero, 
hut rescued either by her father or the hero. 
Often reduced to support herself and her father by 
her talents, and work for her bread; continually 
cheated, and defrauded of her hire;, worn down to 
a skeleton, and now and then starved to death. 
At last, hunted out of civilized society, denied 
the poor shelter of the humblest cottage, they are 
compelled to retreat into Kamtschatka, where the 
poor father, quite worn down, finding his end ap- 
proaching, throws himself on the ground, and 


276 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


after four or five hours of tender advice and pa* 
rental admonition to his miserable child, expires 
in a fine burst of literary enthusiasm, intermin- 
gled with invectives against the holders of tithes. 
Heroine inconsolable for some time, but after- 
wards crawls back towards her former country, 
having at least twenty narrow escapes of falling 
into the hands of anti-hero; and at last, in the 
very nick of time, turning a corner to avoid him, 
runs into the arms of the hero himself, who, hav- 
ing just shaken off the scruples which fettered him 
before, was at the very moment setting off in 
pursuit of her. The tenderest and completest 
eclaircissement takes place, and they are happily 
united. Throughout the whole work heroine to 
be in the most elegant society, and living in high 
style. 

Since the first publication of this memoir, Mr. 
Murray of Albemarle Street has very kindly sent 
to me copies of the following letters, which his 
father received from Jane Austen, when engaged 
in the publication of ‘^Emma.’^ The increasing 
cordiality of the letters shows that the author felt 
that her interests were duly cared for, and was 
glad to find herself in the hands of a publisher 
whom she could consider as a friend. 

Her brother had addressed to Mr. Murray a 
strong complaint of the tardiness of a printer : — 

23 Hans Place, Thursday, November 23 (1815). 

Sir, — My brother’s note last Monday has 
been so fruitless that I am afraid there can be 
but little chance of my writing to any good effect; 


A MEMOIll OF JANE AUSTEN. 277 


but yet I am so very much disappointed and 
vexed by the delays of the printers, that I cannot 
help begging to know whether there is no hope of 
their being quickened. Instead of the work being 
ready by the end of the present month, it will 
hardly, at the rate we now proceed, be finished by 
the end of the next; and as I expect to leave 
London early in December, it is of consequence 
that no more time should he lost. Is it likely 
that the printers will he influenced to greater de- 
spatch and punctuality b}?- knowing that the work 
is to be dedicated, by permission, to the Prince 
Kegent? If you can make that circumstance oper- 
ate, I shall he very glad. My brother returns 
Waterloo ” with many thanks for the loan of it. 
We have heard much of Scott’s account of Paris. ^ 
If it be not incompatible with other arrangements, 
would you favor us with it, supposing you have 
any set already opened? You may depend upon 
its being in careful hands. 

I remain, Sir, your oh* humble Se*, 

J. Austen. 

Hans Place, December 11 (1815). 
Dear Sir, — As I find that ^^Emma” is ad- 
vertised for publication as early as Saturday next, 
I think it best to lose no time in settling all that 
remains to be settled on the subject, and adopt 
this method as involving the smallest tax on your 
time. 

In the first place, I beg you to understand 
1 This must have been “ Paul’s Letters to his Kinsfolk.” 


278 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


that I leave the terms on which the trade should 
be supplied with the work entirely to your judg^ 
ment, entreating you to be guided in every such 
arrangement by your own experience of what is 
most likely to clear off the edition rapidly. I 
shall he satisfied with whatever you feel to be best. 
The titlepage must he ^^Emma, dedicated by 
permission to H. E. H. the Prince Eegent.’^ 
And it is my particular wish that one set should 
be completed and sent to H. E. H. two or three 
days before the work is generally public. It 
should he sent under cover to the Eev. J. S. 
Clarke, Librarian, Carlton House. I shall sub- 
join a list of those persons to whom I must trouble 
you to forward also a set each, when the work is 
out; all unbound, with ‘^From the Authoress’’ 
in the first page. 

I return you, with very many thanks, the 
hooks you have so obligingly supplied me with. 
I am very sensible, I assure you, of the attention 
you have paid to my convenience and amusement. 
I return also ‘‘Mansfield Park,” as ready for a 
second edition, I believe, as I can make it. I am 
in Hans Place till the 16th. From that day in- 
clusive, my direction will be Chawton, Alton, 
Hants. 

I remain, dear Sir, 

Y' faithful humb. Serv*, 

J. Austen. 

I wish you would have the goodness to send a 
line by the bearer, stating the day on which the 
set will be ready for the Prince Eegent. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


279 


Hans Place, December 11, 1815. 

Dear Sir, — I am much obliged by yours, and 
very happy to feel everything arranged to our 
mutual satisfaction. As to my direction about 
the titlepage, it was arising from my ignorance 
only, and from my having never noticed the proper 
place for a dedication. I thank you for putting 
me right. Any deviation from what is usually 
done in such cases is the last thing I should wish 
for. I feel happy in having a friend to save me 
from the ill effect of my own blunder. 

Yours, dear Sir, etc., 

J. Austen. 

Chawton, April 1, 1816. 

Dear Sir, — I return you the Quarterly Ee- 
view ” with many thanks. The Authoress of 
^^Emma’’ has no reason, I think, to complain of 
her treatment in it, except in the total omission of 

Mansfield Park.’’ I cannot but be sorry that so 
clever a man as the Eeviewer of Emma ” should 
consider it as unworthy of being noticed. You 
will be pleased to hear that I have received the 
Prince’s thanks for the handsome copy I sent him 
of ‘^Emma.” Whatever he may think of mi/ 
share of the work, yours seems to have been quite 
-right. 

In consequence of the late event in Henrietta 
Street, I must request that if you should at any 
time have anything to communicate by letter, you 
will be so good as to write by the post, directing 
to me (Miss J. Austen), Chawton, near Alton; 
and that for anything of a larger bulk, you will 


280 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


add to the same direction, hy Collier's Southamp- 
ton coach. 

I remain, dear Sir, 

Yours very faithfully, 

J. Austen. 

About the same time the following letters passed 
between the Countess of Morley and the writer of 
^^Ernma.’^ I do not know whether they were 
personally acquainted with each other, nor in what 
this interchange of civilities originated : — 

The Countess of Morley to Miss J. Austen. 

Saltram, December 27 (1815). 

Madam, — I have been most anxiously waiting 
for an introduction to “Emma,’’ and am infinitely 
obliged to you for your kind recollection of me, 
which will procure me the pleasure of her acquaint- 
ance some days sooner than I should otherwise 
have had it. I am already become intimate with 
the Woodhouse family, and feel that they will not 
amuse and interest me less than the Bennets, 
Bertrams, Norrises, and all their admirable prede- 
cessors. I can give them no higher praise. 

I am. Madam, your much obliged 

F. Morley. 

Miss J. Austen to the Countess of Morley. 

Madam, — Accept my thanks for the honor of 
your note, and for your kind disposition in favor 
of “Emma.” In my present state of doubt as to 
her reception in the world, it is particularly grati- 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


281 


fying to me to receive so early an assurance of 
your Ladyship’s approbation. It encourages me 
to depend on the same share of general good 
opinion which Emma’s ” predecessors have ex- 
perienced, and to believe that I have not yet, as 
almost every writer of fancy. does sooner or later, 
overwritten myself. 

I am. Madam, 

Your obliged and faithful Serv*, 

J. Austen. 

December 31, 1815. 


282 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Slow Growth of her Fame — III Success of first 
Attempts at Publication — Two Reviews of her 
Works contrasted. 

Seldom has any literary reputation been of such 
slow growth as that of Jane Austen. Readers of 
the present day know the rank that is generally 
assigned to her. They have been told by Arch- 
bishop Whately, in his review of her works, and 
by Lord Macaulay, in his review of Madame 
D’Arblay’s, the reason why the highest place is to 
be awarded to Jane Austen, as a truthful drawer 
of character, and why she is to be classed with 
those who have approached nearest, in that respect, 
to the great master Shakspeare. They see her 
safely placed, by such authorities, in her niche, 
not indeed amongst the highest orders of genius, 
but in one confessedly her own, in our British 
temple of literary fame; and it may be difficult 
to make them believe how coldly her works were at 
first received, and how few readers had any appre- 
ciation of their peculiar merits. Sometimes a 
friend or neighbor, who chanced to know of our 
connection with the author, would condescend to 
speak with moderate approbation of Sense and 
Sensibility” or Pride and Prejudice;’^ but if 
they had known that we, in our secret thoughts. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


283 


classed her with Madame D’Arblay or Miss Edge- 
worth, or even with some other novel-writers of tho 
day whose names are now scarcely remembered, 
they would have considered it an amusing instance 
of family conceit. To the multitude her works ap- 
peared tame and commonplace,^ poor in coloring, 
and sadly deficient in incident and interest. It is 
true that we were sometimes cheered by hearing 
that a different verdict had been pronounced by 
more competent judges : we were told how some great 
statesman or distinguished poet held these works 
in high estimation; we had the satisfaction of 
believing that they were most admired by the best 
judges, and comforted ourselves with Horace^s 

satis est Equitem mihi plaudere.’^ So much was 
this the case, that one of the ablest men of my 
acquaintance ^ said, in that kind of jest which has 
much earnest* in it, that he had established it in 
his own mind as a new test of ability, whether 
people could or could not appreciate Miss Austen’s 
merits. 

But though such golden opinions were now and 

1 A greater genius than my aunt shared with her the impu- 
tation of being commonplace. Lockhart, speaking of the Ioav 
estimation in which Scott’s conversational powers were held 
in the literary and scientific society of Edinburgh, says : “ I 
think the epithet most in vogue concerning it was ‘ common- 
place.’ ” He adds, however, that one of the most eminent of 
that society was of a different opinion, “who, when some 
glib youth chanced to echo in his hearing the consolatory 
tenet of local mediocrity, answered quietly, ‘ I have the mis- 
fortune to think differently from you. In my humble opin- 
ion Walter Scott’s sense is a still more wonderful thing than 
his genius.’” — Lockhart’s L\fe of Scott, vol. iv. chap. v. 

2 The late Mr. R. H. Cheney. 


284 


A MEMOIB OF JANE AUSTEN. 


then gathered in, yet the wide field of public taste 
yielded no adequate return either in praise or 
profit. Her reward was not to be the quick return of 
the cornfield, but the slow growth of the tree which 
is to endure to another generation. Her first at- 
tempts at publication were very discouraging. In 
November, 1797, her father wrote the following 
letter to Mr. Cadell: — 

Sir, — I have in my possession a manuscript 
novel, comprising 3 vols., about the length of Miss 
Burney ^s Evelina.’’ As I am well aware of what 
consequence it is that a work of this sort sh'^ make 
its first appearance under a respectable name, I 
apply to you. I shall be much obliged therefore if 
you will inform me whether you choose to be con- 
cerned in it, what will be the expense of publishing 
it at the author’s risk, and what you will venture to 
advance for the property of it, if on perusal it is 
approved of. Should you give any encouragement, 
I will send you the work. 

I am. Sir, your humble Servant, 

George Austen. 

Steventon, near Overton, Hants, 

1st Nov., 1797. 

This proposal was declined by return of post! 
The work thus summarily rejected must have been 

Pride and Prejudice.” 

The fate of ^^Northanger Abbey ” was still more 
humiliating. It was sold, in 1803, to a publisher 
in Bath, for ten pounds; but it found so little 
favor in his eyes that he chose to abide by his 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


285 


first loss rather than risk further expense by pub- 
lishing such a work. It seems to have lain for 
many years unnoticed in his drawers ; somewhat as 
the first chapters of ^^Waverley” lurked forgotten 
amongst the old fishing-tackle in Scott^s cabinet. 

Tilneys, Thorpes, and Morlands consigned ap- 
parently to eternal oblivion! But when four novels 
of steadily increasing success had given the writer 
some confidence in herself, she wished to recover 
the copyright of this early work. One of her 
brothers undertook the negotiation. He found the 
purchaser very willing to receive back his money, 
and to resign all claim to the copyright. When 
the bargain was concluded and the money paid, 
but not till then, the negotiator had the satisfac- 
tion of informing him that the work which had 
been so lightly esteemed was by the author of 
Pride and Prejudice.’’ I do not think that she 
was herself much mortified by the want of early suc- 
cess. She wrote for her own amusement. Money, 
though acceptable, was not necessary for the mod- 
erate expenses of her quiet home. Above all, she 
was blessed with a cheerful, contented disposition 
and an humble mind ; and so lowly did she esteem 
her own claims, that when she received 150^. from 
the sale of Sense and Sensibility,” she con- 
sidered it a prodigious recompense for that which 
had cost her nothing. It cannot be supposed, how- 
ever, that she was altogether insensible to the 
superiority of her own workmanship over that of 
some contemporaries who were then enjoying a 
brief popularity. Indeed a few touches in the fol- 
lowing extracts from two of her letters show that 


286 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


she was as quick-sighted to absurdities in compo- 
sition as to those in living persons. 

<^Mr. C.’s opinion is gone down in my list; hut 
as my paper relates only to ‘ Mansfield Park, ’ I 
may fortunately excuse myself from entering Mr. 
D.’s. I will redeem my credit with him by writ- 
ing a close imitation of ^ Self-Control, ’ as soon as 
I can. I will improve upon it. My heroine shall 
not only be wafted down an American river in a 
boat by herself; she shall cross the Atlantic in 
the same way, and never stop till she reaches 
Gravesend. 

‘^We have got ^E-osanne’ in our Society, and 
find it much as you describe it; very good and 
clever, but tedious. Mrs. Hawkins’ great excel- 
lence is on serious subjects. There are some very 
delightful conversations and reflections on religion : 
but on lighter topics I think she falls into many 
absurdities; and, as to love, her heroine has very 
comical feelings. There are a thousand improba- 
bilities in the story. Do you remember the two 
Miss Ormsdens introduced just at last? Very flat 
and unnatural. Mad^“® Cossart is rather my 
passion.” 

Two notices of her works appeared in the 

Quarterly Eeview,” — one in October, 1815, and 
another, more than three years after her death, in 
January, 1821. The latter article is known to 
have been from the pen of Whately, afterwards 
Archbishop of Dublin.^ They differ much from 

1 Lockhart had supposed that this article had been written 
by Scott, because it exactly accorded with the opinions which 
Scott had often been heard to express, but he learned after- 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


287 


each other in the degree of praise which they 
award, and I think also it may he said, in the 
ability with which they are written. The first 
bestows some approval, but the other expresses the 
warmest admiration. One can scarcely be satisfied 
with the critical acumen of the former writer, who, 
in treating of Sense and Sensibility,” takes no 
notice whatever of the vigor with which many of 
the characters are drawn, but declares that ^‘the 
interest and merit of the piece depends altogether 
upon the behavior of the elder sister! ” Nor is he 
fair when, in Pride and Prejudice, ” he repre- 
sents Elizabeth’s change of sentiments towards 
Darcy as caused by the sight of his house and 
grounds. But the chief discrepancy between the 
two reviewers is to be found in their appreciation 
of the commonplace and silly characters to be 
found in these novels. On this point the differ- 
ence almost amounts to a contradiction, such as 
one sometimes sees drawn up in parallel columns, 
when it is desired to convict some writer or some 
statesman of inconsistency. The Reviewer in 
1815 says: ‘^The faults of these works arise from 
the minute detail which the author’s plan compre- 
hends. Characters of folly or simplicity, such as 
those of old Woodhouse and Miss Bates, are ridicu- 
lous when first presented, but if too often brought 

wards that it had been written by Whately ; and Lockhart, 
who became the Editor of the Quarterly, must have had the 
means of knowing the truth. (See Lockhart’s “ Life of Sir 
Walter Scott,” vol. v. p. 1.58.) I remember that, at the time 
when the review came out, it was reported in Oxford that 
Whately had written the article at the request of the lady 
whom he afterwards married. 


288 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


forward, or too long dwelt on, their prosing is apt 
to become as tiresome in fiction as in real society. 
The Reviewer in 1821, on the contrary, singles 
out the fools as especial instances of the writer's 
abilities, and declares that in this respect she 
shows a regard to character hardly exceeded by 
Shakspeare himself. These are his words: ^^Like 
him (Shakspeare) she shows as admirable a discrim- 
ination in the character of fools as of people of 
sense, a merit which is far from common. To 
invent indeed a conversation full of wisdom or of 
wit requires that the writer should himself possess 
ability; but the converse does not hold good, it is 
no fool that can describe fools well ; and many who 
have succeeded pretty well in painting superior 
characters have failed in giving individuality to 
those weaker ones which it is necessary to intro- 
duce in order to give a faithful representation of 
real life; they exhibit to us mere folly in the 
abstract, forgetting that to the eye of the skilful 
naturalist the insects on a leaf present as wide 
differences as exist between the lion and the ele- 
phant. Slender, and Shallow, and Aguecheek, as 
Shakspeare has painted them, though equally fools, 
resemble one another no more than Richard, and 
Macbeth, and Julius Caesar; and Miss Austen’s ^ 
Mrs. Rennet, Mr. Rushworth, and Miss Bates are 
no more alike than her Darcy, Knightley, and 
Edmund Bertram. Some have complained indeed 
of finding her fools too much like nature, and con- 
sequently tiresome. There is no disputing about 

^ In transcribing this passage I have taken the liberty so 
far to correct it as to spell her name properly with an “ e.” 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 289 


tastes; all we can say is, that such critics must 
(whatever deference they may outwardly pay to 
received opinions) find the ^ Merry Wives of 
Windsor’ and ‘Twelfth Night’ very tiresome; 
and that those who look with pleasure at Wilkie’s 
picture, or those of the Dutch school, must admit 
that excellence of imitation may confer attraction 
on that which would he insipid or disagreeable in 
the reality. Her minuteness of detail has also 
been found fault with ; but even where it produces, 
at the time, a degree of tediousness, we know not 
whether that can justly be reckoned a blemish 
which is absolutely essential to a very high excel- 
lence. Now it is absolutely impossible, without 
this, to produce that thorough acquaintance with 
the characters which is necessary to make the 
reader heartily interested in them. Let any one 
cut out from the ‘ Iliad ’ or from Shakspeare’s 
plays everything (we are far from saying that 
either might not lose some parts with advantage, 
but let him reject everything) which is absolutely 
devoid of importance and interest in itself; and he 
will find that what is left will have lost more than 
half its charms. We are convinced that some 
writers have diminished the effect of their works 
by being scrupulous to admit nothing into them 
which had not some absolute and independent 
merit. They have acted like those who strip off 
the leaves of a fruit tree, as being of themselves 
good for nothing, with the view of securing more 
nourishment to the fruit, which in fact cannot 
attain its full maturity and flavor without them.” 

The world, I think, has endorsed the opinion of 
19 


290 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 

the later writer; but it would not be fair to set 
down the discrepancy between the two entirely to 
the discredit of the former. The fact is that, in 
the course of the intervening five years, these 
works had been read and reread by many leaders 
in the literary world. The public taste was form- 
ing itself all this time, and ^‘grew by what it fed 
on.’^ These novels belong to a class which gain 
rather than lose by frequent perusals, and it is 
probable that each Reviewer represented fairly 
enough the prevailing opinions of readers in the 
year when each wrote. 

Since that time the testimonies in favor of J ane 
Austen’s works have been continual and almost 
unanimous. They are frequently referred to as mod- 
els ; nor have they lost their first distinction of be- 
ing especially acceptable to minds of the highest 
order. I shall indulge myself by collecting into 
the next chapter instances of the homage paid to 
her by such persons. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


291 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Opinions expressed by eminent Persons — Opinions of 
Others of less Eminence — Opinion of American 
Readers. 

Into this list of the admirers of my aunt’s works 
I admit those only whose eminence will be uni- 
versally acknowledged. No doubt the number 
might have been increased. 

Southey, in a letter to Sir Egerton Brydges, 
says; ‘‘You mention Miss Austen. Her novels 
are more true to nature, and have, for my sympa- 
thies, passages of finer feeling than any others of 
this age. She was a person of whom I have heard 
so well and think so highly that I regret not hav- 
ing had an opportunity of testifying to her the 
respect which I felt for her.” 

It may be observed that Southey had probably 
heard from his own family connections of the 
charm of her private character. A friend of hers, 
the daughter of Mr. Bigge Wither, of Many down 
Park near Basingstoke, was married to Southey’s 
uncle, the Rev. Herbert Hill, who had been useful 
to his nephew in many ways, and especially in 
supplying him with the means of attaining his 
extensive knowledge of Spanish and Portuguese 
literature. Mr. Hill had been Chaplain to the 
British Factory at Lisbon, where Southey visited 
him and had the use of a library in those languages 
which his uncle had collected. Southey himself 


292 


A MEMOIR OE JANE AUSTEN. 


continually mentions bis Uncle Hill in terms of 
respect and gratitude. 

S. T. Coleridge would sometimes burst out into 
high encomiums of Miss Austen's novels as being, 
‘‘ in their way, perfectly genuine and individual 
productions. ” 

I remember Miss Mitford's saying tome: “I 
would almost cut off one of my hands, if it would 
enable me to write like your aunt with the other." 

The biographer of Sir J. Mackintosh says: 

Something recalled to his mind the traits of 
character which are so delicately touched in Miss 
Austen’s novels. . . . He said that there was genius 
in sketching out that new kind of novel. . . . He 
was vexed for the credit of the ‘ Edinburgh Re- 
view ’ that it had left her unnoticed.^ . . . ‘The 
Quarterly ’ had done her more justice. ... It was 
impossible for a foreigner to understand fully the 
merit of her works. Madame de Statil, to whom 
he had recommended one of her novels, found no 
interest in it; and in her note to him in reply 
said it was ‘ vulgaire;’ and yet, be said, nothing 
could be more true than what he wrote in answer; 
‘ There is no book which that word would so lit- 
tle suit.’ . . . Every village could furnish matter 
for a novel to Miss Austen. She did not need the 
common materials for a novel, strong emotions or 
strong incidents.’’ ^ 

It was not, however, quite impossible for a for- 

1 Incidentally she had received high praise in Lord 
Macaulay’s Review of Madame D’Arblay’s Works in the 
** Edinburgh.” 

* Life of Sir J. Mackintosh, vol. ii. p. 472. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


293 


eigner to appreciate these works; forMons. Guizot 
writes thus: am a great novel-reader, but I sel- 

dom read German or French novels. The charac- 
ters are too artificial. My delight is to read Eng- 
lish novels, particularly those written by women. 
^C’est toute une 4cole de morale.’ Miss Austen, 
Miss Ferrier, etc., form a school which in the 
excellence and profusion of its productions re- 
sembles the cloud of dramatic poets of the great 
Athenian age.” 

In the Keepsake ” of 1825 the following lines 
appeared, written by Lord Morpeth, afterwards 
seventh Earl of Carlisle, and Lord-Lieutenant of 
Ireland, accompanying an illustration of a lady 
reading a novel : — 

Beats thy quick pulse o’er Inchbald’s thrilling leaf, 
Brunton’s high moral, Opie’s deep- wrought grief ? 

Has the mild chaperon claimed thy yielding heart, 
Carroll’s dark page, Trevelyan’s gentle art ? 

Or is it thou, all-perfect Austen Here 
Let one poor wreath adorn thy early bier. 

That scarce allowed thy modest youth to claim 
Its living portion of thy certain fame ! 

Oh ! Mrs. Bennet ! Mrs. Norris too ! 

While memory survives we ’ll dream of you. 

And Mr. Woodhouse, whose abstemious lip 
Must thin, but not too thin, his gruel sip. 

Miss Bates, our idol, though the village bore ; 

And Mrs. Elton, ardent to explore. 

While the dear style flows on without pretence. 

With unstained purity, and unmatched sense : 

Or, if a sister e’er approached the throne, 

She called the rich “ inheritance ” her own. 

The admiration felt by Lord Macaulay would 
probably have taken a very practical form, if bis 


294 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


life had been prolonged. I have the authority of 
his sister, Lady Trevelyan, for stating that he had 
intended to undertake the task upon which I have 
ventured. He purposed to write a memoir of Miss 
Austen, with criticisms on her works, to prefix it to 
a new edition of her novels, and from the proceeds 
of the sale to erect a monument to her memory in 
Winchester Cathedral. Oh that such an idea had 
been realized! That portion of the plan in which 
Lord Macaulay’s success would have been most 
certain might have been almost sufficient for his 
object. A memoir written by him would have 
been a monument. 

I am kindly permitted by Sir Henry Holland 
to give the following quotation from his printed 
but unpublished recollections of his past life: — 

have the picture still before me of Lord 
Holland lying on his bed, when attacked with 
gout, his admirable sister, Miss Fox, beside him 
reading aloud, as she always did on these occa- 
sions, some one of Miss Austen’s novels, of which 
he was never wearied. I well recollect the time 
when these charming novels, almost unique in 
their style of humor, burst suddenly on the world. 
It was sad that their writer did not live to witness 
the growth of her fame.” 

My brother-in-law. Sir Denis Le Marchant, has 
supplied me with the following anecdotes from 
his own recollections : — 

“When I was a student at Trinity College, 
Cambridge, Mr. Whewell, then a Fellow and after- 
wards Master of the College, often spoke to me 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


295 


with admiration of Miss Austen^s novels. On one 
occasion I said that I had found ^ Persuasion ’ 
rather dull. He quite fired up in defence of it, 
insisting that it was the most beautiful of her 
works. This accomplished philosopher was deeply 
versed in works of fiction. I recollect his writing 
to me from Caernarvon, where he had the charge 
of some pupils, that he was weary of his stay, 
for he had read the circulating library twice 
through. 

‘^During a visit I paid to Lord Lansdowne, at 
Bowood, in 1846, one of Miss Austen’s novels be- 
came the subject of conversation and of praise, 
especially from Lord Lansdowne, who observed 
that one of the circumstances of his life which he 
looked back upon with vexation was that Miss 
Austen should once have been living some weeks 
in his neighborhood without his knowing it. 

I have heard Sydney Smith, more than once, 
dwell with eloquence on the merits of Miss Aus- 
ten’s novels. He told me he should have enjoyed 
giving her the pleasure of reading her praises in 
the ‘Edinburgh Review.’ ‘Fanny Price’ was 
one of his prime favorites.” 

I close this list of testimonies, this long “Ca- 
tena Patrum,” with the remarkable words of Sir 
Walter Scott, taken from his diary for March 14, 
1826: ^ “Read again, for the third time at least. 
Miss Austen’s finely written novel of ‘Pride and 
Prejudice.’ That young lady had a talent for de- 
scribing the involvements and feelings and charac- 
ters of ordinary life, which is to me the most 
1 Lockhart’s “ Life of Scott,” vol. vi. chap. vii. 


296 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


wonderful I ever met witli. The big Bow-Wow 
strain I can do myself like any now going j but 
the exquisite touch which renders ordinary com- 
monplace things and characters interesting from 
the truth of the description and the sentiment is 
denied to me. What a pity such a gifted creat- 
ure died so early! The well-worn condition of 
Scott^s own copy of these works attests that they 
were much read in his family. When I visited 
Abbotsford, a few years after Scott’s death, I was 
permitted, as an unusual favor, to take one of 
these volumes in my hands. One cannot suppress 
the wish that she had lived to know what such 
men thought of her powers, and how gladly they 
would have cultivated a personal acquaintance 
with her. I do not think that it would at all 
have impaired the modest simplicity of her charac- 
ter; or that we should have lost our own dear 
*^Aunt Jane” in the blaze of literary fame. 

It may be amusing to contrast with these 
testimonies from the great, the opinions expressed 
by other readers of more ordinary intellect. The 
author herself has left a list of criticisms which 
it had been her amusement to collect, through 
means of her friends. This list contains much of 
warm-hearted sympathizing praise, interspersed 
with some opinions which may be considered 
surprising. 

One lady could say nothing better of ^‘Mans- 
field Park ” than that it was “ a mere novel.” 

Another owned that she thought “Sense and 
Sensibility” and “Pride and Prejudice” down- 
right nonsense; but expected to like “Mansfield 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


297 


Park’’ better, and ba'ving finished the first vol- 
ume, hoped that she had got through the worst. 

Another did not like Mansfield Park.” Noth- 
ing interesting in the characters. Language poor. 

One gentleman read the first and last chapters 
of ^‘Emma,” but did not look at the rest, because 
he had been told that it was not interesting. 

The opinions of another gentleman about 
‘‘Emma” were so bad that they could not be 
reported to the author. 

“ Quot homines, tot sententise.” 

Thirty-five years after her death there came 
also a voice of praise from across the Atlantic. 
In 1852 the following letter was received by her 
brother. Sir Francis Austen: — 

Boston, Massachusetts, U. S. A., 
6th Jan., 1852. 

Since high critical authority has pronounced the 
delineations of character in the works of Jane 
Austen second only to those of Shakspeare, transat- 
lantic admiration appears superfluous; yet it may 
not be uninteresting to her family to receive an. as- 
surance that the influence of her genius is exten- 
sively recognized in the American Republic, even 
by the highest judicial authorities. The late Mr. 
Chief Justice Marshall, of the Supreme Court of 
the United States, and his associate Mr. Justice 
Story, highly estimated and admired Miss Austen, 
and to them we owe our introduction to her so- 
ciety. For many years her talents have bright- 
ened our daily path, and her name and those of 
her characters are familiar to us as “household 


298 A MEMOIR or JANE AUSTEN. 


words. We have long wished to express to some 
of her family the sentiments of gratitude and 
affection she has inspired, and request more infor- 
mation relative to her life than is given in the 
brief memoir prefixed to her works. 

Having accidentallj’^ heard that a brother of 
Jane Austen held a high rank in the British Navy, 
we have obtained his address from our friend 
Admiral Wormley, now resident in Boston, and 
we trust this expression of our feeling will be re- 
ceived by her relations with the kindness and 
urbanity characteristic of Admirals of her creation. 
Sir Francis Austen, or one of his family, would 
confer a great favor by complying with our request. 
The autograph of bis sister, or a few lines in her 
handwriting, would be placed among our chief 
treasures. 

The family who delight in the companionship 
of Jane Austen, and who present this petition, are 
of English origin. Their ancestor held a high 
rank among the first emigrants to New England, 
and his name and character have been ably repre- 
sented by his descendants in various public sta- 
tions of trust and responsibility to the present 
time in the colony and State of Massachusetts. A 
letter addressed to Miss Quincy, care of the 
Hon“® Josiah Quincy, Boston, Massachusetts, 
would reach its destination. 

Sir Francis Austen returned a suitable reply to 
this application; and sent a long letter of his 
sister’s, which, no doubt, still occupies the place 
of honor promised by the Quincy family. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


299 


CHAPTER IX. 

Observations on the Novels. 

It is not the object of these memoirs to attempt 
a criticism on Jane Austen’s novels. Those partic- 
ulars only have been noticed which could be illus- 
trated by the circumstances of her own life; but 
I now desire to offer a few observations on them, 
and especially on one point, on which my age ren- 
ders me a competent witness, — the fidelity with 
which they represent the opinions and manners of 
the class of society in which the author lived, early 
in this century. They do this the more faithfully 
on account of the very deficiency with which they 
have been sometimes charged, — namely, that they 
make no attempt to raise the standard of human 
life, but merely represent it as it was. They cer- 
tainly were not written to support any theory or 
inculcate any particular moral, except indeed the 
great moral which is to be equally gathered from 
an observation of the course of actual life, — 
namely, the superiority of high over low princi- 
ples, and of greatness over littleness of mind. 
These writings are like photographs, in which no 
feature is softened; no ideal expression is intro- 
duced, all is the unadorned reflection of the natural 
object; and the value of such a faithful likeness 
must increase as time gradually works more and 


300 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


more changes in the face of society itself. A re- 
markable instance of this is to be found in her 
portraiture of the clergy. She was the daughter 
and the sister of clergymen, who certainly were 
not low specimens of their order, and she has 
chosen three of her heroes from that profession; 
but no one in these days can think that either 
Edmund Bertram or Henry Tilney had adequate 
ideas of the duties of a parish minister. Such, 
however, were the opinions and practice then prev- 
alent among respectable and conscientious clergy- 
men before their minds had been stirred, first by 
the Evangelical and afterwards by the High- 
Church movement which this century has wit- 
nessed. The country may be congratulated which, 
on looking back to such a fixed landmark, can find 
that it has been advancing instead of receding 
from it. 

The long interval that elapsed between the com- 
pletion of ^‘Northanger Abbey’’ in 1798 and the 
commencement of ‘^Mansfield Park” in 1811 
may sufficiently account for any difference of style 
which may be perceived between her three earlier 
and her three later productions. If the former 
showed quite as much originality and genius, they 
may perhaps be thought to have less of the fault- 
less finish and high polish which distinguish the 
latter. The characters of the John Dash woods, 
Mr. Collins, and the Thorpes stand out from the 
canvas with a vigor and originality which cannot 
be surpassed; but I think that in her last three 
works are to be found a greater refinement of taste, 
a more nice sense of propriety, and a deeper in- 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 301 


sight into the delicate anatomy of the human 
heart, marking the difference between the brilliant 
girl and the mature woman. Far from being one 
of those who have over-written themselves, it may 
he affirmed that her fame would have stood on a 
narrower and less firm basis if she had not lived 
to resume her pen at Chawton. 

Some persons have surmised that she took her 
characters from individuals with whom she had 
been acquainted. They were so lifelike that it 
was assumed that they must once have lived, and 
have been transferred bodily, as it were, into her 
pages. But surely such a supposition betrays an 
ignorance of the high prerogative of genius to 
create out of its own resources imaginary charac- 
ters, who shall be true to nature and consistent in 
themselves. Perhaps, however, the distinction 
between keeping true to nature and servilely 
copying any one specimen of it is not always 
clearly apprehended. It is indeed true, both of 
the writer and of the painter, that he can use only 
such lineaments as exist, and as he has observed 
to exist, in living objects; otherwise he would pro- 
duce monsters instead of human beings; but in 
both it is the office of high art to mould these 
features into new combinations, and to place them 
in the attitudes and impart to them the expressions 
which may suit the purposes of the artist; so that 
they are nature, but not exactly the same nature 
which had come before his eyes; just as honey can 
be obtained only from the natural flowers which 
the bee has sucked; yet it is not a reproduction of 
the odor or flavor of any particular flower, but be- 


302 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


comes something different when it has gone 
through the process of transformation which that 
little insect is able to effect. Hence, in the case 
of painters, arises the superiority of original com- 
positions over portrait-painting. Reynolds was 
exercising a higher faculty when he designed 
Comedy and Tragedy contending for Garrick, than 
when he merely took a likeness of that actor. The 
same difference exists in writings between the 
original conceptions of Shakspeare and some other 
creative geniuses, and such full-length likenesses 
of individual persons, ‘‘The Talking Gentleman 
for instance, as are admirably drawn by Miss 
Mitford. Jane Austen^s powers, whatever may be 
the degree in which she possessed them, were cer- 
tainly of that higher order. She did not copy 
individuals, but she invested her own creations 
with individuality of character. A reviewer in the 
“Quarterly” speaks of an acquaintance who, ever 
since the publication of “Pride and Prejudice,” 
had been called by his friends Mr. Bennet, but the 
author did not know him. Her own relations 
never recognized any individual in her characters; 
and I can call to mind several of her acquaintance, 
whose peculiarities were very tempting and easy to 
be caricatured, of whom there are no traces in her 
pages. She herself, when questioned on the sub- 
ject by a friend, expressed a dread of what she 
called such an “invasion of social proprieties.” 
She said that she thought it quite fair to note 
peculiarities and weaknesses, but that it was her 
desire to create, not to reproduce; “besides,” she 
added, “I am too proud of my gentlemen to admit 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


803 


that they were only Mr. A. or Colonel She 

did not, however, suppose that her imaginary 
characters were of a higher order than are to he 
found in nature; for she said, when speaking ot 
two of her great favorites, Edmund Bertram and 
Mr. Knightley: ^^They are very far from being 
what I know English gentlemen often are.’^ 

She certainly took a kind of parental interest in 
the beings whom she had created, and did not dis- 
miss them from her thoughts when she had finished 
her last chapter. We have seen, in one of her let- 
ters, her personal affection for Darcy and Elizabeth ; 
and when sending a copy of ^^Emma’’ to a friend 
whose daughter had been lately born, she wrote 
thus: trust you will be as glad to see my 

‘Emma ’ as I shall be to see your Jemima.’^ She 
was very fond of Emma, but did not reckon on 
her being a general favorite ; for, when commenc- 
ing that work, she said, “I am going to take a 
heroine whom no one but myself will much like.’’ 
She would, if asked, tell us many little particulars 
about the subsequent career of some of her people. 
In this traditionary way we learned that Miss Steele 
never succeeded in catching the Doctor ; that Kitty 
Bennet was satisfactorily married to a clergyman 
near Pemberley, while Mary obtained nothing 
higher than one of her uncle Philip’s clerks, and 
. was content to be considered a star in the society 
by Meriton; that the “considerable sum” given 
of Mrs. Korris to William Price was one pound; 
that Mr. Woodhouse survived his daughter’s mar- 
riage, and kept her and Mr. Knightley from set- 
tling at Donwell, about two years; and that the 


304 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


letters placed by Frank Churchill before Jane Fair- 
fax, which she swept away unread, contained the 
word ‘‘pardon.’^ Of the good people in North- 
anger Abbey” and ‘‘Persuasion” we know noth- 
ing more than what is written; for before those 
works were published their author had been taken 
away from us, and all such amusing communica- 
tions had ceased forever. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


305 


CHAPTEE X. 

"Dec LINING Health op Jane Austen — Elasticity op 
HER Spirits — Her Resignation and Humility — Her 
Death. 

Early in the year 1816 some family troubles dis- 
turbed the usually tranquil course of Jane Austen’s 
life; and it is probable that the inward malady, 
which was to prove ultimately fatal, was already 
felt by her; for some distant friends,^ whom she 
visited in the spring of that year, thought that 
her health was somewhat impaired, and observed 
that she went about her old haunts and recalled 
old recollections connected with them in a particu- 
lar manner, as if she did not expect ever to see 
them again. It is not surprising that, under these 
circumstances, some of her letters were of a graver 
tone than had been customary with her, and ex- 
pressed resignation rather than cheerfulness. In 
reference to these troubles in a letter to her brother 
Charles, after mentioning that she had been laid up 
with an attack of bilious fever, she says: ^^I live 
upstairs for the present, and am coddled. I am 
the only one of the party who has been so silly, 
but a weak body must excuse weak nerves.” And 
again to another correspondent: ^^But I am get- 
ting too near complaint; it has been the appoint- 
ment of God, however secondary causes may have 

1 The Fowles, of Kintbury, in Berkshire. 

20 


306 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


operated.^’ But the elasticity of her spirits soon 
recovered their tone. It was in the latter half of 
that year that she addressed the two following 
lively letters to a nephew, one while he was at 
Winchester School, the other soon after he had 
left it: — 


Chawton, July 9, 1816. 

My dear E., — Many thanks. A thank for 
every line, and as many to Mr. W. Digweed for 
coming. We have been wanting very much to 
hear of your mother, and are happy to find she 
continues to mend, hut her illness must have been 
a very serious one indeed. When she is really 
recovered, she ought to try change of air, and come 
over to us. Tell your father that I am very much 
obliged to him for his share of your letter, and 
most sincerely join in the hope of her being event- 
ually much the better for her present discipline. 
She has the comfort, moreover, of being confined in 
such weather as gives one little temptation to be 
out. It is really too bad, and has been too bad for 
a long time, much worse than any one can bear, 
and I begin to think it will never be fine again. 
This is a finesse of mine, for I have often observed 
that if one writes about the weather, it is generally 
completely changed before the letter is read. I 
wish it may prove so now, and that when Mr. W. 
Digweed reaches Steventon to-morrow, he may 
find you have had a long series of hot dry weather. 
We are a small party at present, only grand- 
mamma, Mary Jane, and myself. Yalden’s coach 
cleared off the rest yesterday. I am glad you 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 307 


recollected to mention your being come home.^ My 
heart began to sink within me when I had got so 
far through your letter without its being men- 
tioned. I was dreadfully afraid that you might 
be detained at Winchester by severe illness, con- 
fined to your bed perhaps, and quite unable to 
hold a pen, and only dating from Steventon in 
order, with a mistaken sort of tenderness, to 
deceive me. But now I have no doubt of your 
being at home. I am sure you would not say it so 
seriously unless it actually were so. We saw a 
countless number of post-chaises full of boys pass 
by yesterday morning,^ full of future heroes, legis- 
lators, fools, and villains. You have never thanked 
me for my last letter, which went by the cheese. 
I cannot bear not to be thanked. You will not 
pay us a visit yet of course; we must not think of 
it. Your mother must get well first, and you 
must go to Oxford and not be elected; after that a 
little change of scene may be good for you, and 
your physicians, I hope, will order you to the sea, 
or to a house by the side of a very considerable 
pond. 3 Oh! it rains again. It beats against the 
window. Mary Jane and I have been wet through 
once already to-day; we set off in the donkey- 

1 It seems that her young correspondent, after dating from 
his home, had been so superfluous as to state in his letter that 
he was returned home, and thus to have drawn on himself 
this banter. 

2 The road by which many Winchester boys returned home 
ran close to Chawton Cottage. 

® There was, though it exists no longer, a pond close to 
Chawton Cottage, at the junction of the Winchester and 
Gosport roads. 


308 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


carriage for Uarringdon, as I wanted to see the 
improvement Mr. Woolls is making; hut we were 
obliged to turn hack before we got there, but not 
soon enough to avoid a pelter all the way home. 
We met Mr. Woolls. I talked of its being bad 
weather for the hay, and he returned me the com- 
fort of its being much worse for the wheat. We 
hear that Mrs. S. does not quit Tangier : why and 
wherefore? Do you know that our Browning is 
gone? You must prepare for a William when you 
come, a good-looking lad, civil and quiet, and 
seeming likely to do. Good-by. I am sure Mr. 
W. D.^ will be astonished at my writing so much, 
for the paper is so thin that he will be able to 
count the lines if not to read them. 

Yours affec*^, 

Jane Austen. 

In the next letter will be found her description 
of her own style of composition, which has already 
appeared in the notice prefixed to Nforthanger 
Abbey ’’ and Persuasion : — 

Chawton, Monday, Dec, 16, 1816. 

My dear E., — One reason for my writing to 
you now is, that I may have the pleasure of direct- 
ing to you Esq*^®. I give you joy of having left 
Winchester. NTow you may own how miserable 
you were there ; now it will gradually all come out, 
your crimes and your miseries, — how often you 
went up by the Mail to London and threw away 

1 Mr. Digweed, who conveyed the letters to and from 
Chawton, was the gentleman named, in page 193, as renting 
the old manor-house and the large farm at Steventon. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


309 


fifty guineas at a tavern, and how often you were 
on the point of hanging yourself, restrained only, 
as some ill-natured aspersion upon poor old Win- 
ton has it, by the want of a tree within some miles 
of the city. Charles Knight and his companions 
passed through Chawton about nine this morning; 
later than it used to he. Uncle Henr}?- and I had 
a glimpse of his handsome face, looking all health 
and good-humor. I wonder when you will come 
and see us. I know what I rather speculate upon, 
hut shall say nothing. We tliink Uncle Henry in 
excellent looks. Look at him this moment, and 
think so too, if you have not done it before; and 
we have the great comfort of seeing decided im- 
provement in Uncle Charles, both as to health, 
spirits, and appearance. And they are each of 
them so agreeable in their different way, and 
harmonize so well, that their visit is thorough en- 
joyment. Uncle Henry writes very superior ser- 
mons. You and I must try to get hold of one or 
two, and put them into our novels : it would be a 
fine help to a volume; and we could make our 
heroine read it aloud on a Sunday evening, just as 
well as Isabella Wardour, in the “Antiquary,’’ is 
made to read the “ History of the Hartz Demon ” 
in the ruins of St. Ruth, though I believe, on 
recollection, Lovell is the reader. By the bye, 
my dear E., I am quite concerned for the loss your 
mother mentions in her letter. Two chapters and 
a half to be missing is monstrous ! It is well that 
I have not been at Steventon lately, and therefore 
cannot be suspected of purloining them : two strong 
twigs and a half towards a nest of my own would 


310 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


have been something. I do not think, however, 
that any theft of that sort would be really very 
useful to me. What should I do with your strong, 
manly, vigorous sketches, full of variety and glow? 
How could I possibly join them on to the little bit 
(two inches wide) of ivory on which I work with 
so fine a brush as produces little effect after much 
labor. 

You -will hear from Uncle Henry how well 
Anna is. She seems perfectly recovered. Ben 
was here on Saturday, to ask Uncle Charles and 
me to dine with them to-morrow, but I was forced 
to decline it, as the walk is beyond my strength 
(though I am otherwise very well), and this is not 
a season for donkey -carriages ; and as we do not 
like to spare Uncle Charles, he has declined it too. 
Tuesday. Ah, ah! Mr. E. I doubt your seeing 
Uncle Henry at Steventon to-day. The weather 
will prevent your expecting him, I think. Tell 
your father, with Aunt Cass’s love and mine, that 
the pickled cucumbers are extremely good, and 
tell him also — ^ Hell him what you will.” Ho, 
don’t tell him what you will, but tell him that 
grandmamma begs him to make Joseph Hall pay 
his rent, if he can. 

You must not be tired of reading the word 
uncle, for I have not done with it. Uncle Charles 
thanks your mother for her letter; it was a great 
pleasure to him to know that the parcel was 
received and gave so much satisfaction, and he 
begs her to be so good as to give three shillings for 
him to Dame Staples, which shall be allowed for 
in the payment of her debt here. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


311 


Adieu, Amiable! I hope Caroline behaves well 
to you. Yours affec^^, 

J. Austen. 

I cannot tell how soon she was aware of the 
serious nature of her malady. By God’s mercy it 
was not attended with much suffering; so that she 
was able to tell her friends as in the foregoing 
letter, and perhaps sometimes to persuade herself, 
that, excepting want of strength, she was ^^other- 
wise very well;” but the progress of the disease 
became more and more manifest as the year 
advanced. The usual walk was at first shortened, 
and then discontinued; and air was sought in a 
donkey-carriage. Gradually, too, her habits of 
activity within the house ceased, and she was 
obliged to lie down much. The sitting-room con- 
tained only one sofa, which was frequently occu- 
pied by her mother, who was more than seventy 
years old. Jane would never use it, even in her 
mother’s absence; but she contrived a sort of 
couch for herself with two or three chairs, and was 
pleased to say that this arrangement was more 
comfortable to her than a real sofa. Her reasons 
for this might have been left to be guessed, but for 
the importunities of a little niece, which obliged 
her to explain that if she herself had shown any 
inclination to use the sofa, her mother might have 
scrupled being on it so much as was good for 
her. 

It is certain, however, that the mind did not 
share in this decay of the bodily strength. ^‘Per- 
suasion ” was not finished before the middle of 


312 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


August in that year; and the manner in which it 
was then completed affords proof that neither the 
critical nor the creative powers of the author were 
at all impaired. The book had been brought to an 
end in July; and the re-engagement of the hero 
and heroine effected in a totally different manner 
in a scene laid at Admiral Croft’s lodgings. But 
her performance did not satisfy her. She thought 
it tame and flat, and was desirous of producing 
something better. This weighed upon her mind, 
the more so probably on account of the weak state 
of her health, so that one night she retired to rest 
in very low spirits. But such depression was 
little in accordance with her nature, and was soon 
shaken off. The next morning she awoke to more 
cheerful views and brighter inspirations ; the sense 
of power revived, and imagination resumed its 
course. She cancelled the condemned chapter, and 
wrote two others, entirely different, in its stead. 
The result is that we possess the visit of the Mus- 
grove party to Bath: the crowded and animated 
scenes at the White Hart Hotel; and the charming 
conversation between Captain Harville and Anne 
Elliot, overheard by Captain Wentworth, by which 
the two faithful lovers were at last led to under- 
stand each other’s feelings. The tenth and 
eleventh chapters of ^‘Persuasion,” then, rather 
than the actual winding-up of the story, contain the 
latest of her printed compositions, her last contribu- 
tion to the entertainment of the public. Perhaps 
it may he thought that she has seldom written 
anything more brilliant; and that independent of 
the original manner in which the denouement is 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


313 


brought about, the pictures of Charles Musgrove^s 
good-natured boyishness and of his wife’s jealous 
selfishness would have been incomplete without 
these finishing strokes. The cancelled chapter 
exists in manuscript. It is certainly inferior to 
the two which were substituted for it: but it was 
such as some writers and some readers might have 
been contented with; and it contained touches 
which scarcely any other hand could have given, 
the suppression of which may be almost a matter of 
regret.^ 

The following letter was addressed to her friend 
Miss Bigg, then staying at Streatham with her 
sister, the wife of the Reverend Herbert Hill, 
uncle of Robert Southey. It appears to have been 
written three days before she began her last work, 
which will be noticed in another chapter; and 
shows that she was not at that time aware of the 
serious nature of her malady : — 

Chawton, January 24, 1817. 

My dear Alethea, — I think it time there 
should be a little writing between us, though I be- 
lieve the epistolary debt is on your side, and I hope 
this will find all the Streatham party well, neither 
carried away by the flood, nor rheumatic through 
the damps. Such mild weather is, you know, de- 
lightful to us, and though we have a great many 
ponds, and a fine running stream through the mead- 
ows on the other side of the road, it is nothing but 
what beautifies us and does to talk of. I have cer- 

^ This cancelled chapter is now printed, in compliance with 
the requests addressed to me from several quarters. 


314 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


tainly gained strength through the winter, and am 
not far from being well; and I think I understand 
my own case now so much better than I did, as to 
be able by care to keep off any serious return of 
illness. I am convinced that bile is at the bottom 
of all I have suffered, which makes it easy to know 
how to treat myself. You will be glad to hear thus 
much of me, I am sure. We have just had a few 
days’ visit from Edward, who brought us a good 
account of his father; and the very circumstance of 
his coming at all, of his father’s being able to spare 
him, is itself a good account. He grows still, 
and still improves in appearance, at least in the 
estimation of his aunts, who love him better and 
better, as they see the sweet temper and warm 
affections of the boy confirmed in the young man: 
I tried hard to persuade him that he must have some 
message for William, ^ but in vain. . . . This is 
not a time of year for donkey-carriages, and our 
donkeys are necessarily having so long a run of 
luxurious idleness that I suppose we shall find they 
have forgotten much of their education when we 
use them again. We do not use two at once, how- 
ever; don’t imagine such excesses. . . . Our own 
new clergyman^ is expected here very soon, per- 
haps in time to assist Mr. Papillon on Sunday. I 
shall be very glad when the first hearing is over. 
It will be a nervous hour for our pew, though we 
hear that he acquits himself with as much ease and 
collectedness as if he had been used to it all his 

1 Miss Bigg’s nephew, the present Sir William Heathcote, 
of Hursley. 

2 Her brother Henry, who had been ordained late in life. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 315 

life. We have no chance, we know, of seeing you 
between Streatham and Winchester, you go the 
other road and are engaged to two or three houses f 
if there should he any change, however, you know 
how welcome you would be. . . . We have been 
reading the ^‘Poet’s Pilgrimage to Waterloo,’’ and 
generally with much approbation. Nothing will 
please all the world, you know; but parts of it 
suit me better than much that he has written 
before. The opening — the proem I believe he 
calls it — is very beautiful. Poor man ! one can- 
not but grieve for the loss of the son so fondly de- 
scribed. Has he at all recovered it? What do 
Mr. and Mrs. Hill know about his present state? 

Yours aff^^, 

J. Austen. 

The real object of this letter is to ask you for 
a receipt, but I thought it genteel not to let it 
appear early. We remember some excellent or- 
ange wine at Manydown, made from Seville 
oranges entirely or chiefly. I should be very 
much obliged to you for the receipt, if you can 
command it within a few weeks. 

On the day before, January 23d, she had 
written to her niece in the same hopeful tone: I 
feel myself getting stronger than I was, and can 
so perfectly walk to Alton or back again without 
fatigue, that I hope to be able to do both when 
summer comes.” 

Alas! summer came to her only on her death- 
bed. March 17th is the last date to he found in 


316 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


the manuscript on which she was engaged j and as 
the watch of the drowned man indicates the time 
of his death, so does this final date seem to fix the 
period when her mind could no longer pursue its 
accustomed course. 

And here I cannot do better than quote the 
words of the niece to whose private records of 
her aunt’s life and character I have been so of- 
ten indebted: ‘‘I do not know how early the 
alarming sj^mptoms of her malady came on. It 
W'as in the following March that I had the first 
idea of her being seriously ill. It had been set- 
tled that about the end of that month or the be- 
ginning of April I should spend a few days at 
Chawton, in the absence of my father and mother, 
who were just then engaged with Mrs. Leigh 
Perrot in arranging her late husband’s affairs; but 
Aunt Jane became too ill to have me in the house, 
and so I went instead to my sister Mrs. Lefroy 
at Wyards’. The next day we walked over to 
Chawton to make inquiries after our aunt. She 
was then keeping her room, but said she would 
see us, and we went up to her. She was in her 
dressing-gown, and was sitting quite like an in- 
valid in an armchair, but she got up and kindly 
greeted us, and then, pointing to seats which had 
been arranged for us by the fire, she said, ^ There 
is a chair for the married lady, and a little stool 
for you, Caroline.’ ^ It is strange, but those 
trifling words were the last of hers that I can re- 
member, for I retain no recollection of what was 
said by any one in the conversation that ensued. 

^ The writer was at that time under twelve years old. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 317 


I was struck by the alteration in herself. She 
was very pale, her voice was weak and low, and 
there was about her a general appearance of debil- 
ity and suffering; but I have been told that she 
never had much acute pain. She was not equal to 
the exertion of talking to us, and our visit to the 
sick-room was a very short one. Aunt Cassandra soon 
taking us away. I do not suppose we stayed a 
quarter of an hour; and I never saw Aunt Jane 
again.” 

In May, 1817, she was persuaded to remove to 
Winchester, for the sake of medical advice from 
Mr. Lyford. The Lyfords have, for some genera- 
tions, maintained a high character in Winchester 
for medical skill, and the Mr. Lyford of that day 
was a man of more than provincial reputation, in 
whom great London practitioners expressed confi- 
dence. Mr. Lyford spoke encouragingly. It was 
not, of course, his business to extinguish hope in 
his patient, but I believe that he had, from the 
first, very little expectation of a permanent cure. 
All that was gained by the removal from home 
was the satisfaction of having done the best that 
could be done, together with such alleviations of 
suffering as superior medical skill could afford. 

Jane and her sister Cassandra took lodgings in 
College Street. They had two kind friends liv- 
ing in the Close, Mrs. Heathcote and Miss Bigg, 
the mother and aunt of the present Sir Wm. 
Heathcote, of Hursley, between whose family and 
ours a close friendship has existed for several 
generations. These friends did all that they could 
to promote the comfort of the sisters, during that 


318 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


sad sojourn in Wincliester, both by their society, 
and by supplying those little conveniences in 
which a lodging-house was likely to be deficient. 
It was shortly after settling in these lodgings 
that she wrote to a nephew the following charac- 
teristic letter, no longer, alas! in her former 
strong, clear hand : — 

Mrs. David’s, College St., Winton, 
Tuesday, May 27th. 

There is no better way, my dearest E., of thank- 
ing you for your affectionate concern for me during 
my illness than by telling you myself, as soon as 
possible, that I continue to get better. I will not 
boast of my handwriting; neither that nor my face 
have yet recovered their proper beauty, but in other 
respects I gain strength very fast. I am now out of 
bed from nine in the morning to ten at night: 
upon the sofa, it is true, but I eat my meals with 
Aunt Cassandra in a rational way, and can employ 
myself, and walk from one room to another. Mr. 
Lyford says he will cure me, and if he fails, I 
shall draw up a memorial and lay it before the 
Dean and Chapter, and have no doubt of redress 
from that pious, learned, and disinterested body. 
Our lodgings are very comfortable. We have a 
neat little drawing-room with a bow window over- 
looking Dr. GabelUs garden.^ Thanks to the kind- 
ness of your father and mother in sending me 
their carriage, my journey hither on Saturday was 
performed with very little fatigue, and had it been 

1 It was the corner house in College Street, at the entrance 
to Commoners. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


319 


a fine day, I think I should have felt none; but 
it distressed me to see Uncle Henry and Wm. 
Knight, who kindly attended us on horseback, rid- 
ing in the rain almost the whole way. We expect 
a visit from them to-morrow, and hope they will 
stay the night; and on Thursday, which is a con- 
firmation and a holiday, we are to get Charles out 
to breakfast. We have had but one visit from 
him, poor fellow, as he is in sick-room, but he 
hopes to be out to-night. We see Mrs. Heathcote 
every day, and William is to call upon us soon. 
God bless you, my dear E. If ever you are ill, 
may you be as tenderly nursed as I have been. 
May the same blessed alleviations of anxious, sym- 
pathizing friends be yours : and may you possess, 
as I dare say you will, the greatest blessing of 
all in the consciousness of not being unworthy of 
their love. I could not feel this. 

Your very affec*® Aunt, 

J. A. 

The following extract from a letter which has been 
before printed, written soon after the former, breathes 
the same spirit of humility and thankfulness : — 

I will only say further that my dearest sister, my 
tender, watchful, indefatigable nurse, has not been 
made ill by her exertions. As to what I owe her, 
and the anxious affection of all my beloved family 
on this occasion, I can only cry over it, and pray 
God to bless them more and more.’’ 

Throughout her illness she was nursed by her sis- 
ter, often assisted by her sister-in-law, my mother. 
Both were with her when she died. Two of her 


320 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


brothers, who were clergymen, lived near enough 
to Winchester to be in frequent attendance, and 
to administer the services suitable for a Christianas 
death-bed. While she used the language of hope 
to her correspondents, she was fully aware of her 
danger, though not appalled by it. It is true that 
there was much to attach her to life. She was 
happy in her family; she was just beginning to 
feel confidence in her own success ; and, no doubt, 
the exercise of her great talents was an enjoyment 
in itself. We may well believe that she would 
gladly have lived longer; but she was enabled with- 
out dismay or complaint to prepare for death. She 
was a humble, believing Christian. Her life had 
been passed in the performance of home duties and 
the cultivation of domestic affections, without any 
self-seeking or craving after applause. She had al- 
w^ays sought, as it were by instinct, to promote the 
happiness of all who came within her influence, 
and doubtless she had her reward in the peace of 
mind which was granted her in her last daj^s. Her 
sweetness of temper never failed. She was ever 
considerate and grateful to those who attended 
on her. At times, when she felt rather better, 
her playfulness of spirit revived, and she amused 
them even in their sadness. Once, when she 
thought herself near her end, she said what she 
imagined might be her last words to those around 
her, and particularly thanked her sister-in-law for 
being with her, saying, You have always been a 
kind sister to me, Mary.” When the end at last 
came, she sank rapidly, and on being asked by her 
attendants whether there was anything that she 



NORTH AISLE OF WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL. 
burial place of jane AUSTEN. 



A MEMOIK OF JANE AUSTEN. 


321 


wanted, her reply was, Nothing hut deathN 
These were her last words. In quietness and 
peace she breathed her last on the morning of 
July 18, 1817. 

On the 24th of that month she was buried in 
Winchester Cathedral,^ near the centre of the north 
aisle, almost opposite to the beautiful chantry tomb 
of William of Wykeham. A large slab of black 
marble in the pavement marks the place. Her own 
family only attended the funeral. Her sister re- 
turned to her desolated home, there to devote her- 
self for ten years to the care of her aged mother, 
and to live much on the memory of her lost sister, 
till called many years later to rejoin her. Her 
brothers went back sorrowing to their several 
homes. They were very fond and very proud of 
her. They were attached to her by her talents, 
her virtues, and her engaging manners; and each 
loved afterwards to fancy a resemblance in some 
niece or daughter of his own to the dear sister 
Jane, whose perfect equal they yet never expected 
to see. 

1 Inscription on Jane Austen’s tomb : — 

JANE AUSTEN, 

KNOWN TO MANY BY HER WRITINGS, ENDEARED TO HER 

FAMILY BY THE VARIED CHARMS OF HER CHARACTER, 
AND ENNOBLED BY CHRISTIAN FAITH AND PIETY, 

WAS BORN AT 8TEVENTON IN THE COUNTY 
OF HANTS, DEC’’ XVI. MDCCLXXV. AND 
BURIED IN THIS CATHEDRAL 
JULY XXIV. MDCCCXVII. 

“ She openeth her mouth with wisdom ; and in her tongue is the law 
of kindness.” — Pkov. xxxi. v. xxvi. 

21 


822 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


CHAPTER XI. 

The Cancelled Chapter (Chap. X.) op “Persuasion.” 

With all this knowledge of Mr. Elliot and this 
authority to impart it, Anne left Westgate Build- 
ings, her mind deeply busy in revolving what she 
had heard, feeling, thinking, recalling, and fore- 
seeing everything, shocked at Mr. Elliot, sighing 
over future Kellynch, and pained for Lady Russell, 
whose confidence in him had been entire. The 
embarrassment which must be felt from this hour 
in his presence! How to behave to him? How to 
get rid of him? What to do by any of the party 
at home? Where to be blind? Where to be ac- 
tive? It was altogether a confusion of images 
and doubts — a perplexity, an agitation which she 
could not see the end of. And she was in Gay 
Street, and still so much engrossed that she started 
on being addressed by Admiral Croft, as if he were 
a person unlikely to be met there. It was within 
a few steps of his own door. 

You are going to call upon my wife,’^ said he. 

She will be very glad to see you.’^ 

Anne denied it. 

^^Xo! she really had not time, she was in her 
way home; but while she spoke the Admiral had 
stepped back and knocked at the door, calling out : 

‘‘Yes, yes; do go in; she is all alone; go in 
and rest yourself. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


323 


Anne felt so little disposed at this time to be in 
company of any sort, that it vexed her to be thus 
constrained, but she was obliged to stop. 

Since jmu are so very kind/^ said she, will 
just ask Mrs. Groft how she does, but I really can- 
not stay five minutes. You are sure she is quite 
alone? 

The possibility of Captain Wentworth had oc- 
curred; and most fearfully anxious was she to be 
assured either that he was within or that he 
was not, — which might have been a question. 

^^Oh, yes! quite alone, nobody but her mantua- 
maker with her, and they have been shut up to- 
gether this half-hour, so it must be over soon.’^ 

^^Her mantua-maker ! Then I am sure my 
calling now would be most inconvenient. Indeed 
you must allow me to leave my card and be so good 
as to explain it afterwards to Mrs. Croft. 

^^No, no, not at all, not at all, — she will be 
very happy to see you. Mind, I will not swear 
that she has not something particular to say to 
you, but that will all come out in the right place. 
I give no hints. Why, Miss Elliot, we begin to 
hear strange things of you,’^ smiling in her face. 

But you have not much the look of it, as grave as 
a little judge! 

Anne blushed. 

‘^Ay, ay, that will do now, it is all right. I 
thought we were not mistaken. 

She was left to guess at the direction of his sus- 
picions; the first wild idea had been of some 
disclosure from his brother-in-law, but she was 
ashamed the next moment, and felt how far more 


324 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


probable it was that he should be meaning Mr. 
Elliot. The door was opened, and the man evi- 
dently beginning to deny his mistress, when the 
sight of his master stopped him. The Admiral 
enjoyed the joke exceedingly. Anne thought his 
triumph over Stephen rather too long. At last, 
however, he was able to invite her upstairs, and 
stepping before her said, I will just go up with 
you myself and show you in. I cannot stay, 
because I must go to the Post-Office; but if you 
will only sit down for five minutes I am sure 
Sophy will come, and you will find nobody to dis- 
turb you, — there is nobody but Frederick here,’^ 
opening the door as he spoke. Such a person to be 
passed over as nobody to her! After being allowed 
to feel quite secure, indifferent, at her ease, to have 
it burst on her that she was to be the next moment 
in the same room with him! Ko time for recol- 
lection! for planning behavior or regulating man- 
ners! There was time only to turn pale before 
she had passed through the door, and met the 
astonished eyes of Captain Wentworth, who was 
sitting by the fire, pretending to read, and pre- 
pared for no greater surprise than the Admiral’s 
hasty return. 

Equally unexpected was the meeting on each 
side. There was nothing to be done, however, 
but to stifle feelings, and to be quietly polite; and 
the Admiral was too much on the alert to leave any 
troublesome pause. He repeated again what he 
had said before about his wife and everybody, in- 
sisted on Anne’s sitting down and being perfectly 
comfortable, — was sorry he must leave her himself, 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


325 


but was sure Mrs. Croft would be down very soon, 
and would go upstairs and give her notice directly. 
Anne was sitting down; but now she arose, again 
to entreat him not to interrupt Mrs. Croft, and re- 
urge the wish of going away and calling another 
time. But the Admiral would not hear of it; and 
if she did not return to the charge with uncon- 
querable perseverance, or did not with a more pas- 
sive determination walk quietly out of the room 
(as certainly she might have done), may she not 
be pardoned? If she had no horror of a few min- 
utes^ tHe-h-tete with Captain Wentworth, may she 
not be pardoned for not wishing to give him the 
idea that she had ? She reseated herself, and the 
Admiral took leave, but on reaching the door, 
said, — 

Frederick, a word with you if you please.” 

Captain Wentworth went to him, and instantly, 
before they were well out of the room, the Admiral 
continued, — 

As I am going to leave you together, it is but 
fair I should give you something to talk of; and 
so, if you please — ” 

Here the door was very firmly closed, she could 
guess by which of the two — and she lost entirely 
what immediately followed, but it was impossible 
for her not to distinguish parts of the rest, for the 
Admiral, on the strength of the door’s being shut, 
was speaking without any management of voice, 
though she could hear his companion trying to 
check him. She could not doubt their being speak- 
ing of her. She heard her own name and Kel- 
lynch repeatedly. She was very much disturbed. 


326 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


She knew not what to do or what to expect, and 
among other agonies felt the possibility of Captain 
Wentworth’s not returning into the room at all, 
which, after her consenting to stay, would have been 
— too bad for language. They seemed to be talk- 
ing of the Admiral’s lease of Kelly nch. She heard 
him say something of the lease being signed — or 
not signed; that was not likely to be a very agi- 
tating subject, but then followed, — 

I hate to be at an uncertainty. I must know 
at once. Sophy thinks the same.” 

Then in a lower tone Captain Wentworth 
seemed remonstrating, wanting to be excused, 
wanting to put something off. 

^^Phoo, phoo,” answered the Admiral, ^^now is 
the time; if you will not speak, I will stop and 
speak myself.” 

Very well, sir, very well, sir,” followed with 
some impatience from his companion, opening the 
door as he spoke, — 

“ You will then, you promise you will? ” re- 
plied the Admiral in all the power of his natural 
voice, unbroken even by one thin door. 

Yes, sir, yes.” And the Admiral was hastily 
left, the door was closed, and the moment arrived 
in which Anne was alone with Captain Went- 
worth. 

She could not attempt to see how he looked, but 
he walked immediately to a window as if irreso- 
lute and embarrassed, and for about the space of 
five seconds she repented what she had done, — 
censured it as unwise, blushed over it as indeli- 
cate. She longed to be able to speak of the 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 327 


weather or the concert, hut could only compass the 
relief of taking a newspaper in her hand. The 
distressing pause was over, however; he turned 
round in half a minute, and coming towards the 
table where she sat, said in a voice of effort and 
constraint, — 

"^":i must have heard too much already. 
Madam, to be in any doubt of my having prom- 
ised Admiral Croft to speak to you on a particular 
subject, and this conviction determines me to do 
so, however repugnant to my — to all my sense of 
propriety to be taking so great a liberty! You 
will acquit me of impertinence, I trust, by consid- 
ering me as speaking only for another, and speak- 
ing by necessity; and the Admiral is a man who 
can never be thought impertinent by one who 
knows him as you do. His intentions are always 
the kindest and the best, and you will perceive 
he is actuated by none other in the application 
which- 1 am now, with — with very peculiar feel- 
ings — obliged to make.’’ He stopped, but 
merely to recover breath, not seeming to expect 
any answer. Anne listened as if her life de- 
pended on the issue of his speech. He proceeded 
with a forced alacrity : — 

^^The Admiral, Madam, was this morning con- 
fidently informed that you were — upon my soul, 
I am quite at a loss, ashamed,” breathing and 
speaking quickly, — ^^the awkwardness of giving 
information of this kind to one of the parties — 
you can be at no loss to understand me. It was 
very confidently said that Mr. Elliot — that every- 
thing was settled in the family for a union be- 


328 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


tween Mr. Elliot and yourself. It was added that 
you were to live at Kellynch, — that Kellyncii 
was to be given up. This the Admiral knew 
could not be correct. But it occurred to him that 
it might be the wish of the parties. And my 
commission from him, Madam, is to say, that if 
the family wish is such, his lease of Kellynch 
shall he cancelled, and he and my sister will pro- 
vide themselves with another home, without im- 
agining themselves to be doing anything which 
under similar circumstances would not be done 
for them. This is all. Madam. A very few 
words in reply from you will he sufficient. That 
I should be the person commissioned on this sub- 
ject is extraordinary! and believe me, Madam, it 
is no less painful. A very few words, however, 
will put an end to the awkwardness and distress 
we may both be feeling.” 

Anne spoke a word or two, but they were unin- 
telligible; and before she could command herself, 
he added: ‘^If you will only tell me that the 
Admiral may address a line to Sir Walter, it will 
be enough. Pronounce only the words, ‘ He ma}’’, ’ 
and I shall immediately follow him with your 
message.” 

^‘No, Sir,” said Anne; ^Hhere is no message. 
You are misin — the Admiral is misinformed. I 
do justice to the kindness of his intentions, but he 
is quite mistaken. There is no truth in any such 
report.” 

He was a moment silent. She turned her eyes 
towards him for the first time since his re-entering 
the room. His color was varying, and he was look- 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


329 


ing at her with all the power and keenness which 
she believed no other eyes than his possessed. 

^^No truth in any such report?” he repeated. 
^^No truth in any part of it?” 

^^None.” 

He had been standing by a chair, enjoying the 
relief of leaning on it or of playing with it. He 
now sat down, drew it a little nearer to her, and 
looked with an expression which had something 
more than penetration in it, — something softer. 
Her countenance did not discourage. It was a 
silent but a very powerful dialogue; on his sup- 
plication, on hers acceptance. Still a little 
nearer, and a hand taken and pressed; and 
‘^Anne, my own dear Anne! ” bursting forth in 
all the fulness of exquisite feeling, — and all 
suspense and indecision were over. They were 
reunited. They were restored to all that had 
been lost. They were carried back to the past 
with only an increase of attachment and confi- 
dence, and only such a flutter of present delight as 
made them little fit for the interruption of Mrs. 
Croft when she joined them not long afterwards. 
She, probably, in the observations of the next ten 
minutes saw something to suspect; and though it 
was hardly possible for a woman of her description 
to wish the mantua-maker had imprisoned her 
longer, she might be very likely wishing for some 
excuse to run about the house, some storm to break 
the windows above, or a summons to the Ad- 
miral’s shoemaker below. Fortune favored them 
all, however, in another way, in a gentle, steady 
rain, just happily set in as the Admiral returned 


S30 A MEMOIK OF JANE AUSTEN. 


and Anne rose to go. She was earnestly invited 
to stay dinner. A note was despatched to Camden 
Place, and she stayed, — stayed till ten at night; 
and during that time the husband and wife, either 
by the wife’s contrivance, or by simply going on 
in their usual way, were frequently out of the 
room together, — gone upstairs to hear a noise, or 
downstairs to settle their accounts, or upon the 
landing to trim the lamp. And these precious 
moments were turned to so good an account that 
all the most anxious feelings of the past were gone 
through. Before they parted at night, Anne had 
the felicity of being assured that in the first place 
(so far from being altered for the worse), she had 
gained inexpressibly in personal loveliness; and 
that as to character, hers was now fixed on his 
mind as perfection itself, maintaining the just 
medium of fortitude and gentleness, — that he had 
never ceased to love and prefer her, though it had 
been only at Uppereross that he had learnt to do 
her justice, and only at Lyme that he had begun 
to understand his own feelings ; that at Lyme he 
had received lessons of more than one kind, — the 
passing admiration of Mr. Elliot had at least 
roused him, and the scene on the Cobb, and at 
Captain Harville’s, had fixed her superiority. In 
his preceding attempts to attach himself to Louisa 
Musgrove (the attempts of anger and pique), he 
protested that he had continually felt the impossi- 
bility of really caring for Louisa, though till that 
day, till the leisure for reflection which followed 
it, he had not understood the perfect excellence of 
the mind with which Louisa’s could so ill bear 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


831 


comparison; or the perfect, the unrivalled hold it 
possessed over his own. There he had learnt to 
distinguish between the steadiness of principle 
and the obstinacy of self-will, between the dar- 
ings of heedlessness and the resolution of a col- 
lected mind; there he had seen everything to 
exalt in his estimation the woman he had lost, 
and there had begun to deplore the pride, the 
folly, the madness of resentment, which had kept 
him from trying to regain her when thrown in his 
way. From that period to the present had his 
penance been the most severe. He had no sooner 
been free from the horror and remorse attending 
the first few days of Louisa’s accident, no sooner 
had begun to feel himself alive again, than he 
had begun to feel himself, though alive, not 
at liberty. 

He found that he was considered by his friend 
Harville an engaged man. The Harvilles enter- 
tained not a doubt of a mutual attachment between 
him and Louisa; and though this to a degree was 
contradicted instantly, it yet made him feel that 
perhaps by her family, by everybody, by herself 
even, the same idea might he held, and that he 
was not free in honor, though if such were to he 
the conclusion, too free, alas! in heart. He had 
never thought justly on this subject before, and he 
had not sufficiently considered that his excessive 
intimacy at Uppercross must have its danger of ill 
consequence in many ways; and that while trying 
whether he could attach himself to either of the 
girls, he might he exciting unpleasant reports if 
not raising unrequited regard. 


332 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


He found too late that he had entangled himself, 
and that precisely as he became thoroughly satisfied 
of his not caring for Louisa at all, he must regard 
himself as hound to her if her feelings for him 
were what the Harvilles supposed. It determined 
him to leave Lyme, and await her perfect recovery 
elsewhere. He would gladly weaken by any fair 
means whatever sentiment or speculations concern- 
ing them might exist; and he went therefore into 
Shropshire, meaning after a while to return to the 
Crofts at Kellynch, and act as he found requisite. 

He had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the 
blindness of his own pride and the blunders of his 
own calculations, till at once released from Louisa 
by the astonishing felicity of her engagement with 
Benwick. 

Bath — Bath had instantly followed in thought, 
and not long after in fact. To Bath — to arrive 
with hope, to be torn by jealousy at the first sight 
of Mr. Elliot; to experience all the changes of 
each at the concert; to be miserable by the morn- 
ing’s circumstantial report, to be now more happy 
than language could express, or any heart but his 
own be capable of. 

He was very eager and very delightful in the 
description of what he had felt at the concert; the 
evening seemed to have been made up of exquisite 
moments. The moment of her stepping forward 
in the octagon room to speak to him, the moment 
of Mr. Elliot’s appearing and tearing her away, 
and one or two subsequent moments, marked by 
returning hope or increasing despondency, were 
dwelt on with energy. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


333 


To see you/’ cried he, in the midst of those 
who could not be my well-wishers; to see your 
cousin close by you, conversing and smiling, and 
feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of 
the match! To consider it as the certain wish of 
every being who could hope to influence you! 
Even if your own feelings were reluctant or indif- 
ferent, to consider what powerful support would be 
his! Was it not enough to make the fool of me 
which I appeared ? How could I look on without 
agony ? Was not the very sight of the friend who 
sat behind you; was not the recollection of what 
had been, the knowledge of her influence, the in- 
delible, immovable impression of what persuasion 
had once done, — was it not all against me ?” 

^^You should have distinguished,” replied 
Anne. You should not have suspected me now; 
the case so different, and my age so different. If 
I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, re- 
member it was to persuasion exerted on the side 
of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I thought 
it was to duty ; but no duty could be called in aid 
here. In marrying a man indifferent to me, all 
risk would have been incurred, and all duty 
violated. ” 

^‘Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus,” he 
replied; ^^but I could not. I could not derive 
benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of 
your character. I could not bring it into play; it 
was overwhelmed, buried, lost in those earlier 
feelings which I had been smarting under year 
after year. I could think of you only as one who 
had yielded, who had given me up, who had been 


334 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


influenced by any one rather than by me. I saw 
you with the very person who had guided you in 
that year of misery. I had no reason to believe 
her of less authority now. The force of habit was 
to be added.’’ 

should have thought,” said Anne, ^^that my 
manner to yourself might have spared you much 
or all of this.” 

^^No, no! Your manner might be only the 
ease which your engagement to another man would 
give. I left you in this belief; and yet — I was 
determined to see you again. My spirits rallied 
with the morning, and I felt that I had still a 
motive for remaining here. The Admiral’s news, 
indeed, was a revulsion ; since that moment I have 
been divided what to do, and had it been confirmed, 
this would have been my last day in Bath.” 

There was time for all this to pass, with such 
interruptions only as enhanced the charm of the 
communication, and Bath could hardl}’' contain any 
other two beings at once so rationally and so rap- 
turously happy as during that evening occupied the 
sofa of Mrs. Croft’s drawing-room in Gay Street. 

Captain Wentworth had taken care to meet the 
Admiral as he returned into the house, to satisfy 
him as to Mr. Elliot and Kellynch ; and the deli- 
cacy of the Admiral’s good-nature kept him from 
saying another word on the subject to Anne.^ He 
was quite concerned lest he might have been giving 
her pain by touching on a tender part — who could 
say? She might be liking her cousin better than 
he liked her; and upon recollection, if they had 
been to marry at all, why should they have waited 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


335 


so long? When the evening closed, it is probable 
that the Admiral received some new ideas from his 
wife, whose particularly friendly manner in part- 
ing with her gave Anne the gratifying persuasion 
of her seeing and approving. It had been such a 
day to Anne; the hours which had passed since 
her leaving Camden Place had done so much! 
She was almost bewildered — almost too happy in 
looking back. It was necessary to sit up half the 
night, and lie awake the remainder, to comprehend 
with composure her present state, and pay for the 
overplus of bliss by headache and fatigue. 

Then follows Chapter XI., i. e. XII. in the pub- 
lished book, and at the end is written, — 

FiniSf July 18, 1816. 


S36 


A - MEMOIR OE JAi!^E AUSTEN. 


CHAPTER XII. 

The Last Work. 

Jane Austen was taken from us : how much un- 
exhausted talent perished with her, how largely 
she might yet have contributed to the entertain- 
ment of her readers, if her life had been prolonged, 
cannot be known; but it is certain that the mine 
at which she had so long labored was not worked 
out, and that she was still diligently employed in 
collecting fresh materials from it. ‘‘Persuasion’’ 
had been finished in August, 1816; some time was 
probably given to correcting it for the press; but 
on the 27th of the following January, according to 
the date on her own manuscript, she began a new 
novel, and worked at it up to the 17th of March. The 
chief part of this manuscript is written in her 
usual firm and neat hand, but some of the latter 
pages seem to have been first traced in pencil, 
probably when she was too weak to sit long at her 
desk, and written over in ink afterwards. The 
quantity produced does not indicate any decline 
of power or industry, for in those seven weeks 
twelve chapters had been completed. It is more 
difficult to judge of the quality of a work so little 
advanced. It had received no name; there was 
scarcely any indication what the course of the story 
was to be, nor was any heroine yet perceptible, 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


337 


who, like Fanny Price or Anne Elliot, might draw 
round her the sympathies of the reader. Such an 
unfinished fragment cannot be presented to the pub^ 
lie; but I am persuaded that some of Jane Austen^s 
admirers will be glad to learn something about the 
latest creations which were forming themselves in 
her mind; and therefore, as some of the principal 
characters were already sketched in with a vigor- 
ous hand, I will try to give an idea of them, illus- 
trated by extracts from the work. 

The scene is laid at Sanditon, a village on the 
Sussex coast, just struggling into notoriety as a 
bathing-place, under the patronage of the two prin- 
cipal proprietors of the parish, Mr. Parker and 
Lady Denham. 

Mr. Parker was an amiable man, with more en- 
thusiasm than judgment, whose somewhat shallow 
mind overflowed with the one idea of the prosper- 
ity of Sanditon, together with a jealous contempt 
of the rival village of Brinshore, where a similar 
attempt was going on. To the regret of his much- 
enduring wife, he had left his family mansion, with 
all its ancestral comforts of gardens, shrubberies, 
and shelter, situated in a valley some miles inland, 
and had built a new residence — a Trafal gar House — 
on the bare brow of the hill overlooking Sanditon 
and the sea, exposed to every wind that blows; 
but he will confess to no discomforts nor suffer 
his family to feel any from the change. The fol- 
lowing extract brings him before the reader, 
mounted on his hobby: — 

‘‘ He wanted to secure the promise of a visit, 
and to get as many of the family as his own house 
22 


338 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


would hold to follow him to Sanditon as soon as 
possible ; and, healthy as all the Hey woods unde- 
niably were, he foresaw that every one of them 
would be benefited by the sea. He held it indeed 
as certain that no person, however upheld for the 
present by fortuitous aids of exercise and spirit in 
a semblance of health, could be really in a state of 
secure and permanent health without spending at 
least six weeks by the sea every year. The sea 
air and sea-bathing together were nearly infallible : 
one or other of them being a match for every dis- 
order of the stomach, the lungs, or the blood. 
They were anti-spasmodic, anti-pulmonary, anti- 
bilious, and anti-rheumatic. Hobody could catch 
cold by the sea; nobody wanted appetite by 
the sea; nobody wanted spirits; nobody wanted 
strength. They were healing, softening, relaxing, 
fortifying, and bracing, seemingly just as was 
wanted; sometimes one, sometimes the other. If 
the sea-breeze failed, the sea-bath vvas the certain 
corrective; and when bathing disagreed, the sea- 
breeze was evidently designed by nature for the 
cure. His eloquence, however, could not prevail. 
Mr. and Mrs. Heywood never left home. . . . 
The maintenance, education, and fitting out of 
fourteen children demanded a very quiet, settled, 
careful course of life; and obliged them to be 
stationary and healthy at Willingden. What pru- 
dence had at first enjoined was now rendered 
pleasant by habit. They never left home, and 
they had a gratification in saying so.” 

Lady Denham’s was a very different character. 
She was a rich vulgar widow, with a sharp but 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 339 


narrow mind, who cared for the prospeiity of 
Sanditon only so far as it might increase the value 
of her own property. She is thus described : — 

Lady Denham had been a rich Miss Brereton, 
horn to wealth, but not to education. Her first 
husband had been a Mr. Hollis, a man of consider- 
able property in the country, of which a large 
share of the parish of Sanditon, with manor and 
mansion-house, formed a part. He had been an 
elderly man when she married him ; her own age 
about thirty. Her motives for such a match could 
be little understood at the distance of forty years, 
but she had so well nursed and pleased Mr. Hollis 
that at his death he left her everything, — all his 
estates, and all at her disposal. After a widow- 
hood of some years she had been induced to marry 
again. The late Sir Harry Denham, of Denham 
Park, in the neighborhood of Sanditon, succeeded 
in removing her and her large income to his own 
domains ; but he could not succeed in the views of 
permanently enriching his family which were 
attributed to him. She had been too wary to put 
anything out of her own power, and when, on Sir 
Harry^s death, she returned again to her own 
house at Sanditon, she was said to have made this 
boast, ^ that though she had got nothing but her 
title from the family, yet she had given nothing 
for it. ’ For the title it was to be supposed that 
she married. 

Lady Denham was indeed a great lady, beyond 
the common wants of society; for she had many 
thousands a year to bequeath, and three distinct 
sets of people to be courted by : — her own rela- 


340 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


tions, who might very reasonably wish for her 
original thirty thousand pounds among them; the 
legal heirs of Mr. Hollis, who might hope to he 
more indebted to her sense of justice than he had 
allowed them to be to his ; and those members of 
the Denham family for whom her second husband 
had hoped to make a good bargain. By all these, 
or by branches of them, she had, no doubt, been 
long and still continued to be well attacked; and 
of these three divisions Mr. Parker did not hesitate 
to say that Mr. Hollis’s kindred were the least in 
favor, and Sir Harry Denham’s the most. The 
former, he believed, had done themselves irremedi- 
able harm by expressions of very unwise resent- 
ment at the time of Mr. Hollis’s death : the latter, 
to the advantage of being the remnant of a con- 
nection which she certainly valued, joined those 
of having been known to her from their childhood, 
and of being always at hand to pursue their in- 
terests by seasonable attentions. But another 
claimant was now to be taken into account: a 
young female relation whom Lady Denham had 
been induced to receive into her family. After 
having always protested against any such addition, 
and often enjoyed the repeated defeat she had given 
to every attempt of her own relations to introduce 
Hhis young lady, or that young lady,’ as a com- 
panion at Sanditon House, she had brought back 
with her from London last Michaelmas a Miss 
Clara Brereton, who bid fair to vie in favor with 
Sir Edward Denham, and to secure for herself and 
her family that share of the accumulated property 
which they had certainly the best right to inherit.” 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


341 


Lady Denham’s character comes out in a con- 
versation which takes place at Mr. Parker’s tea- 
table. 

^^The conversation turned entirely upon Sandi- 
ton, its present number of visitants, and the 
chances of a good season. It was evident that 
Lady Denham had more anxiety, more fears of loss 
than her coadjutor. She wanted to have the place 
fill faster, and seemed to have many harassing 
apprehensions of the lodgings being in some in- 
stances underlet. To a report that a large hoard- 
ing-school was expected she replies, ‘Ah, well, 
no harm in that. They will stay their six weeks, 
and out of such a number who knows but some 
may be consumptive, and want asses’ milk; and I 
have two milch asses at this very time. But per- 
haps the little Misses may hurt the furniture. I 
hope they will have a good sharp governess to look 
after them.’ But she wholly disapproved of Mr. 
Parker’s wish to secure the residence of a medical 
man amongst them. ‘Why, what should we do 
with a doctor here? It would only be encouraging 
our servants and the poor to fancy themselves ill, 
if there was a doctor at hand. Oh, pray let us 
have none of that tribe at Sanditon : we go on very 
well as we are. There is the sea, and the downs, 
and my milch asses : and I have told Mrs. Whitby 
that if anybody inquires for a chamber horse, they 
may be supplied at a fair rate (poor Mr. Hollis’s 
chamber horse, as good as new) ; and what can 
people want more? I have lived seventy good 
years in the world, and never took physic, except 
twice, and never saw the face of a doctor in all my 


342 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


life on ray own account; and I really believe if ray 
poor dear Sir Harry had never seen one neither, he 
would have been alive now. Ten fees, one after 
another, did the men take who sent him out of the 
world. I beseech you, Mr. Parker, no doctors 
here.''' 

This lady's character comes out more strongly in 
a conversation with Mr. Parker's guest. Miss 
Charlotte Heywood. Sir Edward Denham with 
his sister Esther and Clara Brereton have just 
left them. 

Charlotte accepted an invitation from Lady 
Denham to remain with her on the terrace, when 
the others adjourned to the library. Lady Denham, 
like a true great lady, talked, aud talked only of 
her own concerns, and Charlotte listened. Taking 
hold of Charlotte’s arm with the ease of one who 
felt that any notice from her was a favor, and 
communicative from the same sense of importance, 
or from a natural love of talking, she immediately 
said in a tone of great satisfaction, and with a 
look of arch sagacity : — 

^ Miss Esther wants me to invite her and her 
brother to spend a week with me at Sanditon 
blouse, as I did last summer, but I sha’n't. She 
has been trying to get round me every waj^ with 
her praise of this and her praise of that; but I saw 
what she was about. I saw through it all. I am 
not very easily taken in, my dear.' 

“Charlotte could think of nothing more harm- 
less to be said than the simple inquiry of, ‘ Sir 
Edward and Miss Denham ? ' 

“ < Yes, my dear; my young folks, as I call them. 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


343 


sometimes; for 1 take tliem very much by the hand, 
and had them with me last summer, about this 
time, for a week, — from Monday to Monday, — 
and very delighted and thankful they were. For 
they are very good young people, my dear. I 
would not have you think that I only notice them 
for poor dear Sir Harry’s sake. No, no; they are 
very deserving themselves, or, trust me, they 
would not be so much in my company. I am not 
the woman to help anybody blindfold. I always 
take care to know what I am about and who I 
have to deal with before I stir a finger. I do not 
think I was ever overreached in my life; and that 
is a good deal for a woman to say that has been 
twice married. Poor dear Sir Harry (between 
ourselves) thought at first to have got more, but 
(with a bit of a sigh) he is gone, and we must not 
find fault with the dead. Nobody could live 
happier together than us: and he was a very 
honorable man; quite the gentleman, of ancient 
family: and when he died I gave Sir Edward 
his gold watch.’ 

^‘This was said with a look at her companion 
which implied its right to produce a great impres- 
sion; and seeing no rapturous astonishment in 
Charlotte’s countenance, she added quickly, — 

‘ He did not bequeath it to his nephew, my 
dear; it was no bequest; it was not in the will. 
He only told me, and that but once, that he should 
wish his nephew to have his watch; but it need not 
have been binding, if I had not chose it.’ 

a<yery kind indeed, very handsome!’ said 
Charlotte, absolutely forced to affect admiration. 


344 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


^Yes, my dear; and it is not the only kind 
thing I have done by him. I have been a very 
liberal friend to Sir Edward ; and, poor young man, 
he needs it bad enough. For, though I am only 
the dowager, my dear, and he is the heir, things 
do not stand between us in the way they usually 
do between those two parties. Not a shilling do I 
receive from the Denham estate. Sir Edward has 
no payments to make me. He don’t stand upper- 
most, believe me; it is I that help him.’ 

^‘‘Indeed! he is a very fine young man, and 
particularly elegant in his address.’ 

This was said chiefly for the sake of saying some- 
thing; but Charlotte directly saw that it was 
laying her open to suspicion, by Lady Denham’s 
giving a shrewd glance at her, and replying, — 

^ Yes, yes; he ’s very well to look at, and it is 
to he hoped that somebody of large fortune will 
think so ; for Sir Edward must marry for money. 
He and I often talk that matter over. A handsome 
young man like him will go smirking and smil- 
ing about, and paying girls compliments, hut 
he knows he must marry for money. And Sir 
Edward is a very steady young man, in the main, 
and has got very good notions.’ 

^Sir Edward Denham,’ said Charlotte, ‘with 
such personal advantages, may he almost sure of 
getting a woman of fortune, if he chooses it.’ 

“ This glorious sentiment seemed quite to remove 
suspicion. 

“‘Ay, my dear, that is very sensibly said; and 
if we could but get a young heiress to Sanditon! 
But heiresses are monstrous scarce ! I do not think 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


345 


we have had an heiress here, nor even a Co., since 
Sanditon has been a public place. Families come 
after families, but, as far as I can learn, it is not 
one in a hundred of them that have any real 
property, landed or funded. An income, perhaps, 
but no property. Clergymen, may be, or lawyers 
from town, or half-pay officers, or widows with 
only a jointure : and what good can such people do 
to anybody? Except just as they take our empty 
houses, and (between ourselves) I think they are 
great fools for not staying at home. Now, if we 
could get a young heiress to be sent here for her 
health, and, as soon as she got well, have her fall 
in love with Sir Edward ! And Miss Esther must 
marry somebody of fortune too. She must get a 
rich husband. Ah! young ladies that have no 
money are very much to be pitied.’ After a short 
pause: ^If Miss Esther thinks to talk me into 
inviting them to come and stay at Sanditon House, 
she will find herself mistaken. Matters are al- 
tered with me since last summer, you know: I 
have Miss Clara with me now, which makes a 
great difference. I should not choose to have my 
two housemaids’ time taken up all the morning in 
dusting out bedrooms. They have Miss Clara’s 
room to put to rights, as well as mine, every day. 
If they had hard work, they would want higher 
wages.’ 

“Charlotte’s feelings were divided between 
amusement and indignation. She kept her coun- 
tenance, and kept a civil silence ; but without at- 
tempting to listen any longer, and only conscious 
that Lady Denham was still talking in the same 


346 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN, 


way, allowed her own thoughts to form themselves 
into such meditation as this : ^ She is thoroughly 
mean ; I had no expectation of anything so bad. Mr. 
Parker spoke too mildly of her. He is too kind- 
hearted to see clearly, and their very connection 
misleads him. He has persuaded her to engage in 
the same speculation, and because they have so far 
the same object in view, he fancies that she feels like 
him in other things; hut she is very, very mean. 
I can see no good in her. Poor Miss Brereton! 
And it makes everybody mean about her. This 
poor Sir Edward and his sister! how far nature 
meant them to be respectable I cannot tell ; but they 
are obliged to he mean in their servility to her ; and 
I am mean, too, in giving her my attention with the 
appearance of coinciding with her. Thus it is 
when rich people are sordid.’ ” 

Mr. Parker has two unmarried sisters of singu- 
lar character. They live together: Diana, the 
younger, always takes the lead, and the elder fol- 
lows in the same track. It is their pleasure to 
fancy themselves invalids to a degree and in a 
manner never experienced by others ; hut, from a 
state of exquisite pain and utter prostration, 
Diana Parker can always rise to he officious in 
the concerns of all her acquaintance, and to make 
incredible exertions where they are not wanted. 

It would seem that they must be always either 
very busy for the good of others, or else extremely 
ill themselves. Some natural delicacy of constitu- 
tion, in fact, with an unfortunate turn for medi- 
cine, especially quack medicine, had given them 
an early tendency at various times to various 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 347 


disorders. The rest of their suffering was from 
their own fancy, the love of distinction, and the 
love of the wonderful. They had charitable hearts 
and many amiable feelings; but a spirit of rest- 
less activity, and the glory of doing more than 
anybody else, had a share in every exertion of 
benevolence, and there was vanity in all they did, 
as well as in all they endured. 

These peculiarities come out in the following 
letter of Diana Parker to her brother : — 

My dear Tom, — We were much grieved at 
your accident, and if you had not described your- 
self as having fallen into such very good hands, I 
should have been with you at all hazards the day 
after receipt of your letter, though it found me 
suffering under a more severe attack than usual 
of my old grievance, spasmodic bile, and hardly 
able to crawl from my bed to the sofa. But how 
were you treated? Send me more particulars in 
your next. If indeed a simple sprain, as you 
denominate it, nothing would have been so judi- 
cious as friction — friction by the hand alone, 
supposing it could be applied immediately. Two 
years ago I happened to be calling on Mrs. Shel- 
don, when her coachman sprained his foot, as he 
was cleaning the carriage, and could hardly limp 
into the house; but by the immediate use of 
friction alone, steadily persevered in (I rubbed his 
ankle with my own hands for four hours without 
intermission), he w'as well in three days. . . . 
Pray never run into peril again in looking for an 
apothecary on our account ; for had you the most 


348 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


experienced man in his line settled at Sanditon, it 
would be no recommendation to us. We have en- 
tirely done with the whole medical tribe. We 
have consulted physician after physician in vain, 
till we are quite convinced that they can do noth- 
ing for us, and that we must trust to our knowledge 
of our own wretched constitutions for any relief; 
but if you think it advisable for the interests of 
the place to get a medical man there, I will under- 
take the commission with pleasure, and have no 
doubt of succeeding. I could soon put the neces- 
sary irons in the fire. As for getting to Sanditon 
myself, it is an impossibility. I grieve to say 
that I cannot attempt it, but my feelings tell me 
too plainly that in my present state the sea-air 
would probably be the death of me ; and in truth I 
doubt whether Susan’s nerves would be equal to 
the effort. She has been suffering much from 
headache, and six leeches a day, for ten days to- 
gether, relieved her so little that we thought it 
right to change our measures; and being con- 
vinced on examination that much of the evil lay 
in her gums, I persuaded her to attack the dis- 
order there. She has accordingly had three teeth 
drawn, and is decidedly better; but her nerves 
are a good deal deranged, she can only speak in a 
whisper, and fainted away this morning on poor 
Arthur’s trying to suppress a cough. 

Within a week of the date of this letter, in spite 
of the impossibility of moving, and of the fatal 
effects to be apprehended from the sea-air, Diana 
Parker was at Sanditon with her sister. She had 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


349 


flattered herself that by her own indefatigable 
exertions, and by setting at work the agency of 
many friends, she had induced two large families 
to take houses at Sanditon. It was to expedite 
these politic views that she came; aud though 
she met with some disappointment of her expecta- 
tion, yet she did not suffer in health. 

Such were some of the dramatis personcBj ready 
dressed and prepared for their parts. They are at 
least original, and unlike any that the author had 
produced before. The success of the piece must 
have depended on the skill with which these parts 
might be played; but few will be inclined to dis- 
trust the skill of one who had so nften succeeded. 
If the author had lived to complete her work, it is 
probable that these personages might have grown 
into as mature an individuality of character, and 
have taken as permanent a place amongst our 
familiar acquaintance, as Mr. Bennet, or John 
Thorpe, Mary Musgrove, or Aunt Norris herself. 


350 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Postscript. 

When first I was asked to put together a memoir 
of my aunt, I saw reasons for declining the at- 
tempt. It was not only that, having passed the 
threescore years and ten usually allotted to man’s 
strength, and being unaccustomed to write for pub- 
lication, I might well distrust my ability to com- 
plete the work, but that I also knew the extreme 
scantiness of the materials out of which it must he 
constructed. The grave closed over my aunt fifty- 
two years ago; and during that long period no idea 
of writing her life had been entertained by any of 
her family. Her nearest relatives, far from mak- 
ing provision for such a purpose, had actually de- 
stroyed many of the letters and papers by which it 
might have been facilitated. They were influenced, 
I believe, partly by an extreme dislike to publish- 
ing private details, and partly by never having 
assumed that the world would take so strong and 
abiding an interest in her works as to claim her 
name as public property. It was therefore neces- 
sary for me to draw upon recollections rather than 
on written documents for my materials; while the 
subject itself supplied me with nothing striking 
or prominent with which to arrest the attention of 


A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN ' 351 

the reader. It has been said that the happiest in- 
dividuals, like nations during their happiest pe- 
riods, have no history. In the case of my au^nt, it 
was not only that her course of life was unvar.^ied, 
but that her own disposition was remarkably c^’Ui 
and even. There was in her nothing eccentric (V 
angular; no ruggedness of temper; no singularity 
of manner; none of the morbid sensibility or ex- 
aggeration of feeling, which not unfrequently ac- 
companies great talents, to be worked up into a 
picture. Hers was a mind well balanced on a basis 
of good sense, sweetened by an affectionate heart, 
and regulated by fixed principles ; so that she was 
to be distinguished from many other amiable and 
sensible women only by that peculiar genius which 
shines out clearly enou;^ in her works, but of 
which a biographer can make little use. The mo- 
tive which at last induced me to make the attempt 
is exactly expressed in^ the passage prefixed to 
these pages. I thought that I saw something to 
be done : knew of no one who could do it but my- 
self, and so was driven to the enterprise. I am 
glad that I have been able to finish my work. 
As a family record it can scarcely fail to be inter- 
esting to those relatives who must ever set a high 
value on their connection with Jane Austen, and 
to them I especially dedicate it; but as I have 
been asked to do so, I also submit it to the censure 
of the public, with all its faults both of deficiency 
and redundancy. I know that its value in their 
eyes must depend, not on any merits of its 
own, but on the degree of estimation in which 


352 A MEMOIR OF JANE AUSTEN. 


my aiiat’s works may still be held; and indeed I 
shall esteem it one of the strongest testimonies 
ever borne to her talents, if for her sake an in- 
terest can be taken in so poor a sketch as I have 
been able to draw. 


44 7 92 











O h' 




: ° 
s-' 




o 

w ^ 




i-» ^ 


°o 



3-f‘r 





; tfi, 


JJp. » 

. ^ % 


* ^ ♦'i 

i ^ li 
i.^\ « 


^O a X"^ V>^ V4 V 

f’X. cp^.^r:.-A 




^ o X 
» ^ov^ * 


‘ ■ - a*- 

o ; eS>Jv 

i i. -^,r v -y-’ ■'<? '".v|i|,\FA. ^ Vj, . 

V" • • -ly.. »./v° • - Vc-.V 




^'VA » 

^AM “ >P-^ 4 . 

^ * Tj- O' ^ 




S\A>7^^^^JS- tt 

Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: 




/N/S 




PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, INC. 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(412)779-2111 




. - ' “^f^« 


*4a^^ ^ ^‘WK* *Ss^ 




vv 

^ 


^ •%. 2 f^yT/ti jj'N^SN ^ ^ VV^" "VAyy z 


tn ♦ 


z %r^ 




<» K' 


HECKMAN 

BINDERY INC. 

lii 

! ' 

r 

^ 1992 


N. MANCHESTER, 
INDIANA 46962 











